


Rue and daisies, hand in hand

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, M/M, Minor Character Death, Torture, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 52,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: Ten years after Jaskier is tossed away like so much dandelion fluff by Geralt, Yennefer has tracked him down to pull their lives back together.  But Jaskier has moved on, had fought in the war that had won Cirilla her kingdom back, had suffered for it, and just wants to fade into the background and lick his wounds in peace.But destiny has ways of twisting the former bard's desires, and he finds himself slipping into old habits as he uncovers a deadly plot threatening the kingdom, and Cirilla.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 595
Kudos: 703





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier laughed as one of the others finished his story, bragging about the ‘fins’ the mermaid had had on her, and how happy she had been when he had been done. He knew it wasn’t real, he had been at sea long enough to know what happened to the business end of a man who pissed off a mermaid, but it was fun times with ale in the tavern all the same. So he drank, and he grinned, and he rolled his eyes and called others out with the best of them.

The weather had been fair, the catch good, and the food warm. He was content, nearly happy, and luxuriating in the feeling when the door opened and his face froze before it could break.

Happy times were always dashed from his hands after he had become accustomed to their comfort. And her bright violet eyes promised an end to them now with a fiery delight that worried him.

Could the world not give him a moment’s peace? He had given so much, could he have nothing of his own left to drown himself with?

The others glanced at her, a whistle echoing through the crowded room, and Jaskier winced. Yennefer may be beautiful, but she had claws that would make a nightmare shriek and run for cover. Hers was the beauty that haunted men and lured them to their deaths, not to warm beds.

“Jaskier,” her smile sweet as she approached the table.

Jaskier downed his ale and wished he had been drinking something stronger. He wasn’t numb enough for whatever trouble she had brought with him. Was she here to kill him? No, that would be ridiculous. They had both chased the same man, but that had been years ago. Nearly a decade now. Even Yennefer wouldn’t see the point in plotting revenge against someone who wouldn’t, couldn’t, interfere in her life on any level.

But who knew the intricate workings of a sorceress’ mind, after all. Maybe his vocal cords were needed for a spell. That would be awful, bleeding out from a jagged hole in his throat, not even being able to gasp out parting words to the world.

Or maybe just making him that much more miserable was on her to-do list, and she was finally getting around to crossing it off now that the world was settling into peace.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier raised his tankard and elbowed the man grinning beside him, “The stew is lovely and the ale only tastes slightly of fish.”

Yennefer wrinkled her nose.

She wasn’t here for the food, then. He hadn’t thought so.

“If you’re done with your,” her face remained a perfect mask of civility but Jaskier could see the disgust echoing through her eyes. “Meal, I would have words.”

Fuck. Words. In private. At least she wasn’t going to make gutting him a public spectacle. Though, really, it would be the way he would go: in front of a crowd.

“Lead the way,” Jaskier stood, winking to his shipmates, and turned to follow the sorceress out of the smoke and into the night.

“You’re a difficult man to find,” Yennefer said with a sigh, waving her hand in the air and bringing forth a portal.

“Yes, well, we all have our oddities these days, don’t we,” Jaskier said, stepping through the portal after her.

His stomach lurched and he swallowed hard. The ale and stew were barely tolerable going down, he had no desire to see how much worse they were coming back up. But his feet stepped onto solid stone, and his stomach ceased protesting.

The room was well lit, with bookcases lining the walls and a cheerful fire happily lapping away at a stack of wood in a charming fireplace. The chairs, placed artfully and nooks and before the fire, were plush and overstuffed, and Jaskier wondered why she would bring a person here for whatever it was she was going to do to him. It was a room to show off to company in, not berate past annoyances. And certainly not bleed them out. The blood would stain the stones and rugs something awful he assumed.

But maybe she was going for a more threatening decor, and he was the perfect new addition. Or, what would remain of him after he the more pulpy bits were removed would be.

“I must say,” Yennefer said, a glass of wine already in her hand, though Jaskier saw no sign of a bottle, “I admire the work. You must tell me who did it, I can’t even smell a whiff of the illusion.”

“Alas,” Jaskier smiled, sitting before the fire and stretching his legs, “The work is all original. My vanity wouldn’t allow magic to disrupt the new canvas.”

Yennefer frowned, and Jaskier could feel her eyes tracing along his face, across the scars that had drawn a new map over the one she had known of old. Even compared to the likes of a witcher he was a horror, he knew. All mountains and valleys where smooth plains should have rolled.

“Your eye,” she whispered, and Jaskier reached up to flutter his fingers gentle along the ridges that cut across his former left gift of sight.

He was lucky it had frozen and glassed in so similar a hue to that of his right, people rarely noticed that it was empty these days. Those on the ships he worked noticed, of course, it was hard not to know the weakness of those around you on the sea. But sailors rarely cared as long as he pulled his own, and for that he was grateful.

A place where he could finally blend in instead of stand out. His days of being a peacock in front of the crowd were long since over.

“A reminder of questions that I could not answer,” Jaskier sighed.

His entire body was a reminder of questions he would not answer these days. 

“Who,” Yennefer growled, “Who took a knife to you?”

“Who else do you think,” Jaskier asked with a sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes, the chair really was wonderful, “The war was bad for all of us.”

The war had been hell for everyone, and he could still smell the fires that had ravaged the continent on a bad day. On a day when shadows jumped out at him in the night and reminded him of how long he had hung in that dungeon, alone, only his captors for company. 

No one would come looking for a little spy. Not even the White Wolf. 

No one had come looking for him. 

“You were a bard,” Yennefer said, sinking into the chair next to his, “Why would Nilfgaard want to torture you?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Jaskier snorted, “Does the childlike empress not get updates? No, don’t look angry, I know that bureaucracy mires itself down without help. No one ever pays attention to a bard, you know. We dance and sing, and hear all sorts of pretty little things.”

“A spy,” Yennefer said thoughtfully, “You would have been a good one. You were familiar at all sorts of courts long before Nilfgaard.”

“I was, one of the best,” Jaskier smiled to himself.

Except he hadn’t been. He had been caught. The best didn’t get caught, they stayed unknown until long after wars were over and even what few documents that may have their names crumbled to dust. No, he had been good, but not the best. And he had been caught and spent months strung up refusing to answer questions, refusing to even speak, until he had gotten lucky that Redania’s army had taken the fortress. 

“Fuck,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier looked over at her curiously.

“If I’m not to be hauled here to be rewarded for keeping a cautious tongue in my mouth, why am I here,” Jaskier asked, “I’m not exactly pleasing for the court to look upon these days.”

“There’s a celebration in a fortnight,” Yennefer said, “Ciri requested that you play. I wasn’t even sure you were alive, but I promised to have you there if I could find you.”

Jaskier shifted in his seat. He hadn’t played in years, not since he had been freed. His fingers were there, as nimble as ever, but the music was gone. The notes were whips across his skin, choking around his throat and sending fire through his veins. The splinters of his lute may have long since been pulled from his skin, but the scars remained.

And he had gladly remained songless since. There’s no use for a bard that is half afraid of his own instrument after all. Who sees pain in the shadows every time he hears a song.

“Give her my apologies, then,” Jaskier sighed, “And send me back to the waters you fished me from. I’m no use to anyone at court these days.”

The fire continued to crackle and Jaskier let the heat set in deep, soaking into his bones, while he could. The ocean was cold and damp, but it was his home now. And he rarely got the chance to dry and warm himself so well. By an hour til sunrise he would be back on a boat, ready to pluck silver fish from the waters once more.

“I can’t do that,” Yennefer apologized, and Jaskier turned to stare at her.

A simple portal and to be left alone, was that too much to ask!?

“Too many people have been waiting too long to see you again, Jaskier. If you won’t sing, then at least stay for the celebration. After,” Yennefer paused, her fingers giving her away as they twitched nervously, “If you still want to leave afterward, I’ll personally see to it that you are forgotten.”

Jaskier sunk into the seat. Two weeks. He could flit around comforts and eat long forgotten delicacies for two weeks. Enjoy the life he would never have again, and then slip away, forgotten once more.

“Half a continent up the coast” Jaskier said, “Tales of people walking through portals end poorly for those that return later.”

“Agreed,” Yennefer smiled.

He could be a spoiled little bird again for two weeks, he reassured himself. He wasn’t a drowning fish on land. He had been through worse, what was there to even be nervous about?

But his body ignored him, his muscles strung and humming, preparing to be struck again without warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer: There's something different about you...
> 
> Jaskier: I know, it's horrific! I'm a creature, good only to be hidden from the world!
> 
> Yennefer: ... I stand corrected, you're still and insufferable moron.
> 
> *Jaskier throws himself on something velvety with dramatic grace and weeps*


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier sighed as he sunk into the tub, warm water sloshing comfortably around him. He had forgotten the pleasure of a hot, fresh water bath. How luxurious it felt to just sit, with eyes closed, and know that you were clean. He could still smell the salt water of the ocean, no doubt etched forever in his skin, but the soap helped make it pleasant.

He was warm. He was clean. There was food sitting on a tray in the other room. _His_ other room, not whatever spare space he could find to curl into, but a room all his own. With a thick mattress and heavy blankets. The pillows were cloudy dreams he looked forward to sinking into.

How had he ever taken any of this for granted? He should have spent his early years thanking every deity he could find for every warm stitch he had been granted.

Silk sheets even!

Jaskier scrubbed at his hair, ducking down into the water and rising again. Repeating with soap again and again and again until he only smelled of citrus and herbs.

He was like a duck ready to be roasted. 

There was even roast duck on the platter, he had smelled. Fruit, and vegetables, and meats, and fresh bread dripping with butter and honey. A feast. Not a thing drenched in salt. Even the wine was rich and fruity.

Jaskier couldn’t stand it any longer, rising from the bath and wrapping himself in the cool silk sleepwear, and followed his stomach to the food that had been laid out. It was a small spread, nothing more than a meal with a variety of choices to fill his belly, but he descended upon it like an ancient god offered a proper sacrifice.

Fine tastes that he had forgotten were even possible danced across his tongue, and he closed his eyes and let the flavors wash over him. The richness of the meat, the pleasant crispness of the lightly seasoned salad, the delicate citrus sweetness of the pastry. It was amazing.

He fell back on the bed once he was done, his stomach bloated, and curled under the thick blankets and slipped into a happy sleep. It was only for a fortnight, he reminded himself. He was not back, he was not a bard again. He was only here as a favor to Yennefer.

But he would enjoy every moment that he could before he returned to salt crisped wools and food that never tasted of anything but fish and ocean spray.

* * *

Jaskier frowned as sun danced across his face, raising him from his slumber. He blinked and looked around, and then blinked again. The room continued to remain the same, the clothes soft and the blankets warm. He had thought it had been a dream.

He had been so sure it had been a dream.

Why would _Yennefer_ of all people go through the trouble of finding him and hauling him to court? There was little love lost between the two of them. He was honestly surprised that she had even bothered to remember his name after all these years.

But he was still here, wrapped warmly in luxury, with a gorgeous breakfast spread out on the table where dinner had rested the night before. And he had long since learned to never turn up his nose at freely offered food, especially not when it was delicious.

He had missed honey. Honeyed nuts, honeyed fruits, honey butter. It was delicious and sweet. He would have to remember to pocket a jar before he was dumped back out on his ass and finally left in peace.

He stretched his left shoulder as he slipped into court clothes, the warmth of the room doing wonders for his old injuries. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to not ache with every move. 

Jaskier stretched out his leg, tugging at the pants, and frowned. The colors were gorgeous, all blues and dark greens, but was this the new court fashion? A little longer than he remembered, and the buttons were fiddly. He could almost see beautiful little designs in the cloth, oceans and waves.

Yennefer must be having a laugh at his expense. But, oh well, he could stand the ridicule. For the food and warm baths alone he would strut around and be the starring ass of court, if it came down to it. He was a bard, had been a bard he corrected himself, he was used to being the star of the show, one way or the other.

But she had mentioned that several people wanted to talk to him. It couldn’t be his old handler, he had been debriefed after his rescue and then released from service, quietly as it always was with spies. Supposedly with no way to trace his identity back to his information. But he doubted many still remembered him, or his music.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings and he glanced up as it opened.

Yennefer, gorgeous in stark black and white as ever, stood there, smiling. She almost looked happy.

“Am I fit to be seen,” Jaskier asked, turning for her to see, “I’ve not kept up with the latest fashions.”

“You’re gorgeous, as always,” Yennefer smiled.

Jaskier’s heart faltered. Yennefer had never thought him gorgeous. She had thought him a nuisance, took pride in ripping him down every chance she could. Was this real? He heard stories of men who escaped the siren’s call. They always told of the bliss the music brought them.

Was he there now, at sea, listening to a song he couldn’t resist? Was he drowning even now?

Did he even care? At least it would be a painless death, though an odd one. Is this what his mind wanted to see before he died? 

“You’ve gone pale as a sheet,” Yennefer frowned, stepping into the room, the skirts of her dress floating elegantly around her.

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier said, smiling wanly, “Am I expected somewhere today? You mentioned people wishing to speak with me.”

“Yes, Ciri would like to speak with you. She had hoped for some music, but I’m sure some conversation would suit just as well.”

Jaskier swallowed. He could feel the muscles around his left eye spasming, as they did when he was nervous. And he was frightfully nervous now. He had entertained the young girl at her grandmother’s court on numerous occasions. Had watched her grow, in a distant way, until the world had begun to burn around them. Until she had been lost, and then reemerged as the new queen, empress of a new nation built from the grisly ashes of the destroyed northern kingdoms.

Though not technically his empress, Redania had managed to survive, that was a minor technicality. He was in her court, with her favored sorceress. She was his empress until he could fade away back to his life on the sea.

“I would be delighted to submit to her whims,” Jaskier smiled. 

Yennefer frowned, and Jaskier could feel a bead or two of sweat on his brow. He didn’t want to see the empress, he didn’t want to play the royal game, twisting and reading words until nothing had any meaning beyond who would stab who first.

“She’s still just Ciri, no matter where life has taken her,” Yennefer said, trying to reassure him.

“Yennefer, I haven’t seen her since she was short enough to hide under tables, and be taken from feasts for her bedtime shortly after the sun had set. She’s just an old memory to me, and I but an old man to her now.”

“Then be an old man and a fond memory for her now,” Yennefer smiled, taking him by the arm and walking him from the room, “Though, I must say, for an old man your hair lacks the gray of wisdom that I would have expected.”

“It’s the salt,” Jaskier said with a smile, “Sea water and sea air will preserve even the worst of us.”

“And here I just thought because you had no wits to grow wise with,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier snorted.

Yes, that was about right too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: so, am I pretty as a peacock?
> 
> Yenn: you have crow's feet
> 
> Jaskier: Nooo! I've been moisturizing! *sobs dramatically*
> 
> Yenn: and you're a witless moron. Come on, the empress thinks you're funny
> 
> *Yenn herds a wailing Jaskier forward with a stick*


	3. Chapter 3

The dark velvets and dark, oiled woods made the chamber feel as if it were a warm, welcoming cave. The thin slit windows offered no view, but the fireplace offered light and warmth. Jaskier was delighted by the taste. He had been half afraid that Ciri would have dragged the opulent golds of her grandmother’s fashion into her court, and make them all suffer for her vanity.

No, this was the muted safety of a home. There was no intrusions here save those that she desired. Jaskier was honored that he had even been allowed in, though he did wish for some candles so he could better see the titles of the books that took up space on the small bookshelf. Clearly she had not become a reader as she had grown.

“She’ll be along shortly,” Yennefer explained, “The court does keep her busy.”

Jaskier nodded, shifting his weight and admiring a landscape hanging on the wall. All cold peaks and storms. Was this the fabled Kaer Morhen? He knew Geralt had brought her there to train and her and raise her after Cintra had fallen, but he had never heard more than chilling descriptions of the aged keep in passing. The witchers of the wolf school kept their secrets tight to their breast.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” a woman’s voice interrupted his musings, “It reminds me of home.”

“Your majesty,” Jaskier turned, bowing deeply.

The woman before him, and a woman she was, no longer the girl from his memories, was wrapped in a handsomely embroidered dress, the green as rich as any forest, the gold threads shining in the firelight. A scar stood out across her face, her hair plain and neat, and Jaskier was willing to bet she had half a dozen knives hidden on her person. 

No longer was she the young child that hopped and begged for story after story, whining for tales of fae and unicorns. No, this was a woman that had won a war and taken back an empire with her own blade. White hair, firm stance. He saw so much of Geralt in her.

Geralt must be so proud.

“Please, don’t,” Ciri said with a smile, “I get enough of that fucking nonsense from those backstabbers at court. Are you sure I can’t just wear a sword and threaten a few of them?”

Yennefer laughed, putting down a book, and rolled her eyes.

“If I’ve told you once-”

“You’ve told me a thousand times: it’s rude to threaten to kill idiots at court. Yes mother,” Ciri replied, flopping down in one of the chairs before the fire in a most unladylike fashion.

Jaskier smiled. Outside of being able to speak in more than monosyllabic grunts, he truly did see so much of Geralt in her. Destiny had done an amazing job weaving his little child surprise into his image.

Ciri looked back over at Jaskier, eyeing him up and down with a frown. Surely she remembered him if she had called for him. But Jaskier understood the mistrust. He was no longer the vain peacock that she most likely remembered, no matter how Yennefer had gone out of her way to dress him as one.

“I remember you,” Ciri said, “You always played the most fantastic music, and always took the time to entertain me with those silly rhymes when I begged.”

“It was my pleasure,” Jaskier smiled, catching himself before added another ‘majesty’.

Manners had, indeed, been beaten into his bones. At least at court.

“Mother said you don’t play anymore,” Ciri said, “A shame. I wanted you for the feast. It would have been perfect, he-”

“Ciri,” Yennefer cut her off quickly.

But Jaskier could fill in the blanks well enough. He had been stupid enough to get caught, but he was still an intelligent man. Geralt. They had brought him here for Geralt. Had his witcher become nostalgic? Or did he merely wish to tie up a few loose ends? He couldn’t see the man truly wanting to see him after so many years. 

Jaskier knew Geralt regreted their parting words, the man was always quick with his temper if he knew he could get away with it. And, after twenty years traveling together, Jaskier had been on the receiving end of more than a few bursts of anger. But the past was the past, and Jaskier simply wanted it to stay there.

He didn’t care for apologies any longer. He wanted good ale, hot food, and a calm sea. None of which Geralt would ever be able to provide.

“She can say his name,” Jaskier said, “I’m not going to quiver and melt. We parted poorly, it happens. I’ve parted in worse ways with worse company over the years, I assure you.”

Yennefer stared at him cooly, and he could tell she was not convinced. She never was, she always thought she knew better than everyone around her. Part of being a sorceress he assumed; she always did know more than everyone else in the room.

But the damage was already done, and the cautious optimism of the room was shattered, leaving only the steady beat of an awkward stillness. Ciri was fiddling with the fabric of her dress, wishing for a blade to hold no doubt, he had seen Geralt do much the same when he was nervous. 

“I take it he’ll be in attendance as well,” Jaskier finally said, glancing over at Ciri.

“Yes, he,” she paused, a bitter smile on her face, “It was going to be a surprise.”

“Well, never let it be said that I disappointed the empress,” Jaskier replied, “While I may not sing any longer, I’ll happily have a chat with the poor man. We can put our history behind us and enjoy the fresh new world that has been forged with fresh eyes and happy hearts.”

Yennefer snorted, but Jaskier ignored her. 

“Good,” Ciri said with a nod, “I’ll have them ring you two a private dinner or something. It’ll be good, dad’s mood has been like a pricked bear and it’s driving everyone up the fucking walls.”

“I don’t see how I can change that, he’s been like that for decades,” Jaskier laughed.

Ciri shrugged, glaring daggers at the door as a gentle rap was heard.

“For fuck’s sake, can’t I get a damn moment to myself?” Ciri snapped, hauling herself to her feet and straightening the folds of her gown. She shimmered in the firelight, and Jaskier caught sight of the pins in her hair. She was definitely witcher raised, no one else would keep so many weapons about their person.

“Be good, rule well,” Yennefer said with a smile, brushing a few stray hairs into place around Ciri’s face.

Ciri rolled her eyes and nodded, rushing out the door, her face a mask of perfect, elegant calm.

Jaskier watched the door close behind her, shutting off the bright outside world once more, and leaving the two of them, old and bitter companions, alone in their dark cave. He hoped the next two weeks would allow him more peace than this. He would happily stay in his room, well fed and forgotten, before briefly appearing and disappearing back into forgotten history.

“He misses you,” Yennefer said, interrupting Jaskier’s musings.

“No he doesn’t,” Jaskier said, “He misses not being tied up in destiny and all the trappings that have come with it. I just happened to be part of the before picture, that’s all.

“You did well raising her. She’s strong, and a good ruler.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer said, her smile honest.

Jaskier was almost a little sad that he hadn’t been there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier stares wistfully at the life he never lived*
> 
> Ciri: I'm going to stab every last one of those mother fuckers!
> 
> *Ciri launches herself out the door, sword in hand*
> 
> Jaskier: on second thought...


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier, despite how much he thought he would revel in the luxury his rooms provided, quickly grew bored. After two days he had become tired of sleeping in a soft bed long after sunrise, and of having all his meals, delicious and perfect, delivered. He had flipped through the books in his room, had stared out at the gardens his window provided him a view of, beautiful and red in the autumn twilight, and he was bored.

He was bored of being a kept man that didn’t even have the opportunity to fuck someone. Though his attempts at flirting had left him with nothing but male servants as the women had scorned his advances. All the charm in the world couldn’t hide his face. Even the male servants had taken to rushing in and out after he had tried flirting with a few of them.

So he found himself walking the hallways, admiring the paintings and sculptures, and wondering why Yennefer had dragged him here so early. Surely two weeks before any celebration was long enough to make anyone sour of their guests, though it was easy to escape the issue in a castle this large. He hadn’t seen Yennefer or Ciri since their first meeting.

In fact, outside of people scurrying along through the hallways, he hadn’t seen anyone. No one to idly chat with, or even inquire as to what the celebration he was to attend was about. He didn’t think it was a holiday, it was certainly too early to be any of the more fun winter ones. And he didn’t think it was an important birthday. Certainly not Ciri’s, he had performed at several of those, but maybe a friend of hers? Someone else important at court?

Was there to be a signing of a new treaty? Redania could finally be fully merging into the kingdom, and the safety that it offered. Nilfgaard may have been defeated, but the southern power vacuum was immense. Even Ciri hadn’t been able to stave off that nightmare.

Had she won an important battle as of late? 

And, more importantly, why was this entire hallway, quiet and forgotten, decorated with nothing but landscapes of snow covered mountains? He had certainly seen plenty of the standard court affairs elsewhere, but here nothing but those that shared a similarity with the one in Ciri’s private study. 

“Too many trees on the mountain in that one,” a voice interrupted his train of thought.

Jaskier paused, looking to his left slowly. He knew who it was. Knew the deep growl that always lingered in his speech, knew who would complain about the artistry of a winter landscape. Should have known that he lurked in this hallway the instant he realized that everyone else was avoiding it.

And there he was, his black clothes miraculously clean, his hair combed, and a well groomed beard gracing his face. When had he grown a beard? It looked good on him. Everything always looked good on him.

Even the frown and anger in his eyes.

“Geralt, it’s been forever-” Jaskier was cut off as Geralt’s hand was tracing the scar that blinded his left eye.

“When did this happen,” he demanded.

He knew Geralt wasn’t angry at him, his mind told him that, after twenty years together, they had at least been friends. Geralt was merely angry on his behalf. But standing there, under his glare, it was difficult to fight the urge to turn and run, and hope that he survived long enough to escape the vicious wolf that was before him.

“Geralt, you’re scaring me,” Jaskier said, swallowing and taking a step back.

Don’t run, he reminded himself. Immortals are always attracted to things that run.

Geralt pulled his hand away, gnashing his teeth before straightening his back and taking a breath. The infamous control, if Jaskier hadn’t been standing there at the receiving end he would have never known that Geralt had been the most terrifying thing in the world just a moment before.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and Jaskier gaped at him.

He had never heard the other man apologize, honestly, for anything. Times truly had changed!

“Quite alright, it’s been a while, I had forgotten how,” Jaskier paused for a moment, “Fickle your emotions were.”

“I’m not fickle,” Geralt said, turning his glower on the painting that he had disagreed with minutes before.

“Of course not, wolves are never fickle,” Jaskier reassured him with a smile, falling back on old habits.

They stood there, in silence, staring at the painting in the empty hallway. The hallway that Ciri must have created for Geralt to have some place to go to glower. How she had managed to bring him to court and keep him there for more than a day or two he couldn’t begin to guess. Was he her protector now? He wouldn’t be a great bodyguard at court, all growling and snapping, but perhaps her court was different than the stodgy affairs he had suffered through in the past.

“I went looking for you, in Lettenhove,” Geralt said, finally breaking the silence.

“Lettenhove burned fairly early on in the war,” Jaskier reminded him, “Not really a place to return to.”

“You were in Oxenfurt for a while,” Geralt said, and Jaskier could feel his hands tightening.

Had they just missed each other? Or had there been years between their lingering in the city? He had only lingered there briefly at the beginning of the war, long enough to be recruited and set out to actually be of help to someone. Someone more grateful than Geralt had been.

“Just a few weeks, then I was busy elsewhere,” Jaskier shrugged.

“Was it Nilfgaard,” Geralt finally asked. Jaskier could almost smile, he had never heard the man carry on a conversation for so long that didn’t involve haggling. He was almost proud. There had even been blunt, but polite, inquiries!

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “They caught me in one of the courts near the southern border. They were still searching for you and Ciri at the time.”

The air was nearly frigid with Geralt’s anger. He shouldn’t have mentioned that. Should have kept the line of questioning to himself, it did no one any good to know now.

“But it was mostly the standard affair of where troops were located, who was controlling the northern armies, what mages were still around to give them trouble. You remember Nilfgaard, about as inventive with their questions as they were with their fashion,” Jaskier continued, trying to reassure Geralt.

Geralt’s teeth were bared in a snarl, though he was still glaring at the landscape. He always knew how to put his foot in it with the witcher. All rambling and spilling the wrong information.

“Why the fuck would they think you knew any of that,” Geralt demanded.

Oh. Geralt didn’t know. Either Yennefer had been keeping secrets, or they hadn’t spoken in the past few days. That wasn’t a good sign for their relationship. Though they could just be busy, Geralt could have newly returned from some hunt, and Yennefer could be off portaling her way across the continent to aggravate others, he didn’t know. He had spent the last few days being a lump in the comfort of his rooms.

“Because I was a spy for Redania,” Jaskier told him.

No use in beating around the bush after all, he had done what he had had to to help the northern armies. He couldn’t pick up a sword or raise an empress, but he and his lute had managed just fine.

Geralt stared at him, shock written clearly across his face.

Jaskier just rolled his eyes, of course Geralt would know nothing of the subtleties of the court, and how well he had danced through them. The man had been a brute that cared little for the art of conversation, or eavesdropping. Though he had done well in helping hack his way through Nilfgaard, one soldier at a time.

Geralt gnashed his teeth again, and turned and left, his footsteps thunderous as he returned back down the hallway. Jaskier stared after him in bewilderment. Was he angry at the deception? There hadn’t been any deception on Jaskier’s part, he hadn’t turned spy until after he had parted from the witcher’s company.

But there was no untangling Geralt’s mind at times. And he certainly wasn’t going to chase after him and be snapped at just now, he had earned enough of that for a lifetime during their travels.

Jaskier moved on to the next painting, yet another winter landscape, but this time he could pick out several wolves on the mountain. All with golden eyes, but only one of them white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt attempts to use Words*
> 
> *Words has failed*
> 
> *Geralt has hurt Jaskier with Words*
> 
> Geralt: ... fuck


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt’s breath came in heaving gasps as he swung the training sword down again and again and again upon the battered corpse of the training dummy. Straw and wood fell around him as he took his rage out upon the block of mangled wood. It couldn’t soothe his anger, he could still feel it pulsing through his veins, but it helped.

How could they have taken a knife to Jaskier’s face? 

The sword came down.

How could they dare touch the bard, his bard!?

The sword came down.

How could they dare have tortured him!?

The sword came down, and lay still as he wiped sweat from his brow.

How could he have abandoned Jaskier, and not come for him when he was needed most?

And that was the crux of the issue, Geralt realized. After all these years spent fooling himself that Jaskier had simply stayed safe somewhere, elsewhere, he discovered the truth: he had thrown himself into the worst of it. And, for once, Geralt hadn’t been there to save him.

He had always been there to save him before. Pulled him out of danger, talked down angry husbands, and generally spent half his time reminding the bard that staying back meant away from anything with claw or fang that might try to eat him. And when men had pulled out knives, and started stripping flesh from his body, he had hung there and Geralt hadn’t arrived.

He should have been there. 

“You’ve seen him then,” Yennefer said, and Geralt simply nodded, staring down at the shattered piece of wood he had bent his anger upon.

Would that there was still a Nilfgaard left to receive a similar fate. But he had already raised his sword against them and won. He had already gotten his revenge, before he even knew that he needed it.

Still, standing there, in the chill autumn wind, he felt empty. He hadn’t done enough, and someone he cared for had suffered for it. Again.

“You knew,” Geralt asked, looking up at her.

It wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. She had fought just as fiercely as he had, had raised a child with him, built the world a future with him. She hadn’t kept this from him, she hadn’t known.

“Not until I found him in a tavern on the coast,” she admitted, and Geralt nodded.

Yennefer had a cruel streak running through her veins, and he had been the target of it enough times during their relationship, but she hadn’t been as spiteful to wish any of this upon Jaskier. She, too, had been caught unaware.

“He doesn’t play anymore,” Yennefer continued, and Geralt stared at her.

How could his bard not play?

“His hands, did they-”

“He’s fine, physically,” Yennefer reassured him, “It’s his insistence. He’ll stay for the celebration, but I promised to return him afterward.”

Geralt snorted. Celebration indeed. He had told Ciri to lay off a thousand times, but she was as stubborn as her parents and couldn’t be dissuaded. The grand feast to celebrate the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen was the talk of the palace. The fierce guardian of the people, as Ciri put it, needed to be recognized.

He’d rather be left alone to food, ale, and rest. And she knew it.

“It’s not your fault,” Yennefer said, trying to reassure him, “I know that stubborn look on your face. You didn’t push him into any of this, you didn’t hold him down and put a knife to him. He’s an adult-”

Geralt growled, dunking his head into the chilly water bucket and blocking the sorceress’ words. He knew they were true, he wasn’t responsible for Jaskier. The man barely had enough sense rattling in his head to keep him alive, but he was still a man. He hadn’t needed Geralt to hold his hand with every step.

But those words he had used on the mountain. He could smell the lingering pain they had caused. Had that pushed him to try to be more? To throw himself into danger where he previously had not.

“Quit being a child,” Yennefer sighed, handing him a towel, “You didn’t do anything you can blame yourself for.”

“I didn’t save him,” Geralt pointed out, “I didn’t even know he was in danger!”

“And yet he survived,” Yennefer replied, “And he’s here now, alive and well. Enjoy the time you have with him. Have dinner, show him how you slice up defenseless pieces of wood, and whatever else it is that you two bonded over.”

Geralt’s hands tightened around the towel. He had never really known why Jaskier had followed him for all those years. Yes, he knew the bard had certainly made a name for himself singing songs that Geralt had provided the inspiration for, but beyond that he was clueless. Geralt hadn’t been kind to him, had spent more time snapping at him than not. 

He had never even thanked him. Not once. Not for a single thing he had ever done.

Would Jaskier even want to talk to him again? He had seemed pleasant enough in the hallway, happy to exchange words, but Geralt wasn’t a master at reading people. And his words, his actions, after all these years.

“I frightened him, in the hallway,” Geralt admitted.

He twisted the towel around in his hands, wincing as he heard a thread snap. He couldn’t control his temper or his strength these days, it seemed. But Yennefer, at least, could help. She was the one that had the people skills between the two of them, that knew how to weave words into delicate tapestries.

“Then go and apologize,” Yennefer said.

“Can’t you-”

“Geralt, Jaskier knows you. He knows you can’t speak more than three words without making a mess of things, he’ll understand,” Yennefer said patiently, taking the towel from him, “Just go and speak to him.”

Geralt paused, and nodded. She was right. Jaskier wouldn’t hold him to the same level as the court, wouldn’t expect the frivolities that others hung on. He was his friend, no matter how hard to think that that friendship was now in the past. He could apologize. It was the least he could do after all this time. 

“He usually has dinner delivered to his rooms, I’ll see to it he has enough for two tonight,” Yennefer said with a smirk before she sauntered off back toward one of the many little secret entrances that she enjoyed using.

Geralt swallowed. He hadn’t really thought about Jaskier in years. Had happily assumed him to be safe, and not suffering. Not needing his help. Not alone in a dungeon somewhere, strung up like a butcher’s finest cut, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

He should have come. 

He needed to apologize for that, at least.

Geralt looked down at his clothes with a frown.

He also needed to bathe and change, or all he would hear would be complaints that he smelled. At least sweat was easier to wash off than entrails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt hits things with swords*
> 
> Yenn: ya know, actually talking to him might work better.
> 
> *Geralt stares at the sword in confusion*
> 
> Yenn: Jaskier, talk to Jaskier
> 
> *Geralt storms off to talk to Jaskier*
> 
> Yenn: without the sword, moron!
> 
> *Jaskier, stealing pastries elsewhere*
> 
> Jaskier: why do I feel a sudden headache coming my way?


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier stared at the spread of food on his little table in confusion. He had become used to getting a little of this and that served, tiny portions that were more than enough to make up a meal, and had appreciated the ability to choose and savor at whim. And he had always been left with more than enough to nibble on during the night if the feeling took him.

But now, now he was truly confused. There were steaks, half a chicken, and three different loaves of bread! He never finished one, what was he to do with three!? Were the palace staff trying to fatten him up into a new set of clothes!? 

It didn’t make any sense, and Jaskier didn’t care enough to call someone to ask further. They would clean up the leftovers and realize their mistake later. And, hopefully, dine happily on everything he didn’t eat. Maybe that was it, a few extra pieces of meat would easily be shared amongst the kitchen staff. If that was the case, let them dine well and be merry.

But the wine, the wine was his, and so he happily poured himself a glass of something sweet and dark, and wondered where to begin. With a bit of vegetables, he decided. Something wintery and green, and coated in spices and cheese.

A knock interrupted him before he could pick up his fork, and he sighed, going to the door. It was too solid a sound to have been a servant, and too polite to have been Yennefer; the sorceress went where she wanted, manners be damned. He half knew who would be on the other side of the door, standing nervously in an empty cooridor.

And he was happily proven correct. At least he knew why the dinner spread had tripled in size.

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier said with a smile, stepping aside and ushering him in, “I was just thinking about you. Or, at least, the servants were when they prepared dinner.”

Geralt shuffled in nervously, his fingers twitching, and Jaskier rolled his eyes as he closed the door. You would think Geralt was afraid of him with the way he was acting, like he had suddenly grown claws and fangs. No, that wasn’t right, if he had grown claws and fangs Geralt would know perfectly well how to deal with him.

Geralt was trying his hand at manners, and now suddenly Jaskier had the upper hand. Though the upper hand at what he knew not, it wasn’t like he was competing with Geralt for anything. He never had. The Geralt of this new world confused him a little, he was so different from when they had parted last. 

He was bathed and clean, and he suspected no one had had to even bribe him to get him into something besides armor and rags.

“Yennefer pressed you to come, I take it,” Jaskier finally asked, breaking the brittle silence.

“Is it that telling,” Geralt asked, smiling, and Jaskier motioned at a spare chair.

“Geralt, my friend, I traveled with you for twenty years. Never once would it have occurred to you to send more food rather than just split what was already here.”

“I’m not that bad,” Geralt shot back, pulling a knife out and slicing off a hunk of bread.

“You offered me half a pinecone once,” Jaskier said, accepting a smaller slice of bread. “And I watched you eat your half. Even Roach thought you were mad.”

“It wasn’t a pinecone,” Geralt said, exasperated. “It was a tuber, and it was completely edible!”

Jaskier snorted at that, taking a bite of warm bread and looking over the plates spread before the two of them. He was so used to eating nothing but fish and fish stew that the options were a delight, but left him a little more overwhelmed than he wanted to admit. The potatoes, sliced and cooked in an amazing cheese sauce, were something he definitely wished there were more of. The vegetables too. And anything with citrus.

He didn’t realize how much he loved lemons until they weren’t there anymore.

Geralt watched him patiently, taking a steak and slicing it neatly.

“Table manners,” Jaskier asked, taking a few slices of the chicken.

“Ciri insisted,” Geralt replied with a sigh. “She’s very big on being proper in front of everyone. She claims it shows them that us witchers aren’t all savage animals.”

“She’s met Lambert, right,” Jaskier laughed, passing a plate of roasted vegetables.

Geralt laughed, nodded, and took a long draft of his mug of ale. But Jaskier watched his face change as the mug was lowered, the smile gone, and winced. He still didn’t know what was a sensitive topic or not with his old friend. And Lambert, with his crass words, could easily have done something to make mentioning him a poor choice.

“You know Lambert,” Geralt asked, his voice icy.

Ah. Yes. That.

“He doesn’t know me,” Jaskier shrugged, “I’ve been in the same tavern as him a time or two, listening in. I didn’t trade you up for another witcher, I promise.”

The glower on Geralt’s face didn’t drop, and Jaskier could feel the cold glare now. He had only heard Lambert in passing after he and Geralt had parted ways. After he had become a spy, and Geralt had taken Ciri under his wing.

Apparently him being a spy was the sour subject. He should really start keeping notes, it was amazing how many things pissed Geralt off these days. His face, his actions, what he had done in the war. It was becoming quite the minefield trying to talk to his old friend.

“You’re still angry about me being a spy,” Jaskier leaned back, gulping as his wine. 

“No,” Geralt tried to deny, slamming his mug on the table and sending the dishes clattering.

A plate of vegetables spilled out across the floor, the oily sauce glistening on the rug in the candlelight.

“I’m sorry that Yennefer dragged you here, and I’m sorry if I’m smearing your honor through the mud. Rest assured that, the instant I’m gone, you’ll never hear from me again,” Jaskier snapped, trying to catch a hold of his breath as the words left his lips.

He was angry, no, furious that he was being treated like this by someone he had called a friend for _decades_! They had both fought for the same cause in the same war, though their weapons had been different. He wasn’t some boot bottom scum to be scraped and forgotten just because he had defied a witcher’s precious code.

Geralt stared at him, his face a mask, and Jaskier waited for him to say something.

And waited.

Time crept by, the fireplace snapping, and Jaskier could feel Geralt trying to collect his thoughts, watched how he fought with himself by how his fingers twitched on the tablecloth. He wouldn’t go for a weapon, Geralt would never strike an unarmed person without need, but Jaskier wondered if his scar tissue would tear when he received the punch.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally forced out between his teeth.

Jaskier nodded, and went back to the food. It had begun to cool, meat congealing in it’s own fat, but it was tasty none the less. He ignored Geralt as he stood up suddenly and stormed from the room. They had gotten along well those twenty years they had traveled together. They had been good friends, he had thought.

But the years they had spent apart stretched painfully between them now. They had both grown in very different directions. And it made Jaskier a little sad, he would miss Geralt. But he had only agreed to stay at court for a few weeks, and he couldn’t continue missing him his entire life.

It was time to close the door on his past and move on. And Geralt had simply done him the gift of slamming the door for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt attempts to use Words. Again.*
> 
> *Jaskier misunderstands*
> 
> *Geralt has hurt Jaskier with Words*
> 
> *Geralt has fled*
> 
> *Geralt eats Pinecone*
> 
> *It's not very effective*
> 
> Seriously though, don't eat pinecones. They're bad for you. Or, at least, I can't imagine a raw pinecone would be pleasant.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt stormed around the entry room, glaring at the books and the woman that was sitting there, _calmly_ , and simply drinking a glass of wine and ignoring him. He had done everything like she had told him to. He had bathed, he had dressed nicely, and he had shown up for dinner.

He had been polite!

But still; still he had fucked it all up by opening his mouth and expecting anything, anyone, but himself to speak. He had should have known better. He knew his temper was still running hot from earlier, from seeing the scars that traced down Jaskier’s face and knowing that he was half to blame. He should have apologized immediately and left instead of sitting down to supper.

He kicked a stool out of the way and glowered at the upended piece of furniture.

He needed his sword and something to swing at. Everything was so much simpler when he had his sword and monsters to slay. Yes, people threw rotting fruit at him and drove him from towns, and yes he had hated that. But it had been simple: witchers kill monsters for money, people hate witchers.

None of this pandering to the court with table manners and polite speech and oiled hair that stank and made him long for the greasy stench of selkimore guts once again.

And Lambert! He would have Lambert’s head! He had been in the same damn tavern as Jaskier and never even noticed! How could the man call himself a witcher when everything seemed to escape his attention? Jaskier could have been a Nilfgaardian spy, and his brother would have been none the wiser until a knife and slid into his throat and left him a red puddle on the ground.

Except Jaskier had been a spy. A Redanian spy, but a spy none the less.

And that was the crux of his frustration. He had driven Jaskier to get involved, to put his life at risk, and hadn’t been there to save him. And he couldn’t even bring himself to apologize without getting angry.

Geralt finally slumped into the chair across from Yennefer, burying his head in his hands. How was he going to make this better if he couldn’t even look at his friend without getting angry?

“Are you finally done,” Yennefer asked, not bothering to look up from her book and taking another sip of wine.

“Yes,” Geralt admitted, slumping into the chair and glaring at the fire.

Why hadn’t he sent Yennefer to apologize for him? She would know what to say.

He glanced at the sorceress, and wondered if she would do it. She was good with words, and certainly better at controlling herself than he was. She knew how to navigate being polite and kind to people far better than he ever would.

And she certainly wouldn’t make Jaskier flinch away because her temper rose in her throat and threatened to strangle the words in her mouth. He growled, tightening his fists at the memory of Jaskier flinching, afraid that Geralt was going to hit him.

Twice he had done that today!

“Did you stick your foot in your mouth and make a fool of yourself,” Yennefer asked, still sipping at her wine.

Geralt growled, but nodded. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer sighed, lowering her book and putting down her glass. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you pounding on Jaskier’s door and letting whatever this is spill out to him? Pace around in his room and apologize there. And then do whatever it is you intend to hopefully do with him and leave me to my rest.”

“I can’t,” Geralt snapped. “I scared him.”

The silence echoed between the two of them for a moment as Yennefer stared at him, and then started laughing. Geralt stared at her, bewildered. He didn’t find the situation any more amusing than it had been ten minutes before. Less so, actually.

“He followed you around for twenty years, I doubt he’s suddenly become afraid of you in his old age.”

“He flinched,” Geralt tried to explain. “I said the wrong words. Yenn, can’t you do this?”

“We’ve already exchanged our words,” Yennefer said with a smile. “And I’m not the one trying to bed him.”

Geralt eyed her, glaring. He wasn’t trying to _bed_ Jaskier! He just wanted to apologize. The way they had left things on the mountain all those years ago still festered at him, he shouldn’t have been so cruel. If he hadn’t said them maybe Jaskier would still have his lute, and maybe even play in Ciri’s court.

She liked his music. Complained about their current bard screwing up the songs something awful at times. If Geralt hadn’t driven Jaskier away, she wouldn’t have to glare at the poor man every time he opened his mouth to sing the wrong song.

And he wouldn’t have to miss hearing the right voice singing himself.

“You want my advice?” Yennefer asked, and Geralt nodded. “You’ve made enough of a mess of tonight. Go to bed, and sleep. No going to the training yards, just sleep. Tomorrow I’ll track him down and sit there while you try not to scare him, or whatever it is you did, alright?”

“Thank you, Yenn,” Geralt sighed in relief.

He didn’t always trust her, but he knew she would keep her word. Even if she would tease him relentlessly about it later. But he could do with a little teasing if it helped. Better than Lambert getting wind of the situation.

“Now off with you, I’ve my book and am bored of your growls,” Yennefer waived her hand toward the door and Geralt left.

Tomorrow, he reassured himself. All of this would be behind them tomorrow.

* * *

Jaskier yawned as he ducked into an shadowy alcove, hiding from the guard that was patrolling farther down the hallway. He hadn’t, originally, intended to sneak around like a thief, but he hadn’t found anyone to ask for directions to Yennefer’s room at first.

And then old habits had him enjoying the little game of not getting caught. He had left his boots a few corridors back, and the warm wool socks were amazing for silencing his steps on the cold stone. He wiggled his toes and glanced down the hallway.

The coast was clear. 

With a smile he slunk down, keeping to shadows, and rounded the corer before ducking into the thick velvet drapes that obscured the night sky. A careful slip up had him gently sitting on the narrow sill, and his feet braced across from him. The glass was uncomfortably cool, but that couldn’t be avoided.

He would have to warn Yennefer about all these nice little nooks. Definitely dangerous to have around.

Footsteps, a pair of them, were soft on the stone floor, but there was no silencing their steps completely. Not spies or thieves then. Too light to be guards.

“… slipped it into her food, but nothing,” the first voice, a man’s voice, hissed.

“I warned you. She’s had that witcher training. We need something they can’t handle,” a second voice whispered back. Deeper than the first, the accent a touch southern.

Jaskier frowned as they hurried passed his windowsill.

“I still say a knife in the dark,” the first voice argued back. “Can’t be immune to one of those!”

“Does witcher mean nothing to you,” the second voice growled. “She’s practically wears armor under all her...”

Jaskier waited, letting the cold seep in through the window and chill him to the bone. He waited until he heard three guards pass, and his finger began to go numb and his legs ached from bracing against the stone.

He had been a spy. He knew what angry whispers in empty hallways meant.

His need to find Yennefer was far more immediate than a few complaints about Geralt now. 

Ciri was in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt mopes and is pouty*
> 
> *Geralt whines that he's an emotionally constipated bastard that keeps saying stupid things*
> 
> Jaskier: yeah, boring that *tosses Geralt out the window* there are things afoot!
> 
> Yenn: about damn time


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier cursed as he slipped through another hallway, pressing himself against stone in the shadows and listening for footsteps. No one had noticed him as he had slipped from the window, but now he was winding his way through unfamiliar hallways, lost, and he was loathe to ask for help. No shoes, a face scarred, he stuck out like a half chewed thumb and didn’t want to risk the ire of unknown guards.

He was only a guest thanks to the memory of a now grown woman, empress though she was. He couldn’t rely on the standing of the tales of a bard that no one had heard of in a decade. As much as he hated to admit it, his fame had faded and left him with very little.

He paused a moment. In the shadows and poor light of flames the images danced to a sacred night feast, but he remembered the tapestry still the same. It hung on the hall leading down toward Yennefer’s chambers. And, thankfully, only her chambers. No need to worry about ears at the door and eyes at the cracks in a sorceress’ room.

Not than anyone who would be naive enough to make the mistake of attempting to spy on Yennefer more than once. 

The gentle echo of his knock sounded like a call to arms in the silence of the night, and Jaskier swallowed and glanced around worriedly. He hadn’t been followed, he reassured himself. He was alone, no one was there. No one was there, he reassured himself.

No one could be there.

The door opened and an irate Yennefer stood there, glare quickly softening as she saw Jaskier.

Jaskier shook his head, glancing behind him before quickly slipping into her rooms and pulling the door soundly shut. Safe, he told himself. He was safe in here. He didn’t need to bother checking, Yennefer would have strung up anyone trespassing on her domain as an example to others to keep out.

“What’s wrong,” Yennefer demanded, pouring him a glass of wine.

Jaskier accepted the glass gracefully, still standing, and downed the wine. And the second glass.

He wasn’t in this business anymore. He wasn’t a spy, listening at doors and convincing sweet nothings of the bedroom to turn into secrets he was never supposed to hear. But here he was, half blind, standing in a shadowy room with a woman demanding answers.

Again.

“Geralt said he had frightened you, but I thought-” Yennefer started, but Jaskier shook his head and cut her off.

“Not Geralt,” he accepted a third glass of wine and simply held this one, “I mean yes, I have a few words to say about him, but that’s not important right now.

“Someone is plotting to kill Ciri.”

Yennefer stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. It was a pleasant laugh, light and melodic, and Jaskier wondered if it was her original laugh. Did the mutations that sorceress’ went through change everything to make them attractive, even down to their voice?

But it was also unnerving. Here he was, bringing her news that someone was trying to kill the empress, _her daughter_ , and she was just standing there and laughing. Like it was a joke. A joke that he didn’t find particularly funny.

“Someone is always plotting to kill her, she does hold quite the crown” Yennefer smiled, wiping a tear from her eye. “People spend more time trying to stab her than negotiate. More’s the pity, she’s better at dealing with backstabbing than negotiations. They might have a chance if they kept their battles to paper.”

Jaskier nodded, of course people were out to kill her. That’s half of what court was; backstabbing their way to the top. He had grown up amongst those knives.

“They said they had already poisoned her food and failed,” Jaskier snapped.

Holding a knife was one thing. Having had it deflected was another. But that sobered Yennefer up, and a frown wrinkled across her face.

“Did they say when,” she asked.

“No, I just caught the side bits of the conversation as they rushed through the hall. One of them had a light southern accent, but nothing more than that.”

“No features?”

“I was pressed against a window on the other side of a curtain,” Jaskier apologized with a roll of his eyes. “Forgive me for not taking notes. You should also have something done about that, it’s very easy to creep here without being caught, or even noticed, by the guards.”

Yennefer nodded her head, still in thought, and Jaskier downed the glass of wine. It would have to be his last for the night, he wasn’t used to it anymore and it was already beginning to go to his head. No matter how men bragged, saltwater ale had nothing on the potent vintages the palace kept in stock. 

“Ciri has a habit of not eating in public,” Yennefer said, finally looking up. “She prefers meals in her own rooms. But, earlier this week, one of the ladies at court took ill after dinner. I thought it may have been family infighting, she and some others are on poor terms. But, if she had been served Ciri’s portions...”

“No one noticed she doesn’t eat at court,” Jaskier asked, honestly surprised.

Surely the empress without a plate before her would stand out as odd indeed. Courts ran on gossip, everything was fair game for discussion the more powerful the person. From the exact shade of colors used to make their clothes to how much and what they ate at formal banquets. Ciri was the empress, those trying to impress would be observing her every move and trying to match her. She was the trend setter for the nation, like it or not.

“She pushes around the tiny portions they serve her and pretends to nibble. And then sets on proper food like a ravenous wolf back in her rooms. Just because she insists on using table manners doesn’t mean she didn’t forget the crudities of Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer shook her head and Jaskier snorted.

That rather made sense. 

“Please tell me she at least has the sense not to eat pine cones when she becomes a ravenous beast.”

Yennefer laughed at that, her mouth loud as she threw back her head. Oh, poor Geralt, that story would follow him for the rest of his life if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

“Thankfully not,” Yennefer said. “She may have their table manners, but I pounded more common sense into her than that.”

“That’s good to hear, it would be rather frightening to think where the kingdom would be headed without someone with decent sense in charge.”

“Yes, rather,” Yennefer agreed. “But no one has gotten close enough in a while to strike so close. Especially with Eskel taking the reins of her security. And a southern lord at that, though there have been enough dawdling around court as of late, trying to get her to accept a courtship, that it doesn’t single any single man out.”

“Eskel’s here,” Jaskier asked, nearly surprised.

He had run into the scarred witcher several times, even while he still traveled with Geralt. The man had more brains than most professors he had studied under in Oxenfurt. He hadn’t realized he had left the Path and taken up a position at court. 

“He plays her head of security, but he does rather well as spymaster too. He’ll most likely have more of an idea who you heard than anyone else.” Yennefer stifled a yawn, and Jaskier glanced out the window.

It was growing late, and even his old bones were feeling the ache of the day and longed for a hot bath and a soft bed.

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier offered.

He was sure Yennefer would send word where need be immediately, but he wasn’t needed for that just now. He had brought the news to those who could do more with it, and that was the best he could offer.

“I’ll gather you after breakfast,” Yennefer agreed. “I’m sure Eskel will spare some time for us.”

She was sure she could make Eskel spare some time for them, Jaskier could hear, but it was no skin off his back. She was a sorceress, he was a spymaster, he was sure they bit and hissed at one another all the time. But it was not like he was busy with important business, he was simply the childhood memory of the empress, tucked away until some not too distant important day, waiting to be thrown away.

“Goodnight, Yennefer,” Jaskier said, rising to his feet with a wince.

The sea spray hadn’t preserved him half as well as he liked to show, his body reminded him.

“Stay safe, Jaskier,” Yennefer said. 

And, with that, Jaskier disappeared into the shadows of the hallway and slipped back to his rooms, wool socks whisper quiet across the stones. He didn’t even remember his complaints about Geralt until he got back to his rooms and saw the stain where the upturned food had landed on his rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier stares at rug*
> 
> Jaskier: oh man, that rug really tied the room together!


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt knew he had promised Yenn that he would go to bed, straight to bed, and get some much needed rest. But he couldn’t. His brain was still stewing, and simply lying there, sinking into the mound of feathers that was called a mattress, would do him no good. He needed to talk, and sort this out.

So he turned to family.

He pounded on Eskel’s door again, wondering where his brother could be if he wasn’t in his chambers at this time of night. He had already passed by and scared the half a dozen clerks that were busy at work copying the palace correspondence in his offices, and he wasn’t in the kitchens. 

He had been tempted to check the training grounds, but he knew if he set foot there he wouldn’t be able to drag himself away until morning broke, and Eskel was never known for his late night training.

So here he was, pounding on his brother’s door, again, and hoping it wasn’t in vain. He needed someone to talk to, to sort this entire Jaskier mess out, and set him right. Yenn could only laugh and tease, and the sword could only channel his anger until he had destroyed yet another dummy. Neither could help him understand why he just couldn’t get the words to form right in his mind and come out right when he spoke.

Well, Lambert could, but he would spend the next century being teased about it, and he would rather avoid that. And Vesemir refused to leave the mountain this late in the season.

The door shot open and Geralt was surprised when a half dressed form hurried past him. He glanced at the fleeing man, hair long and white blond, muscular, carrying black clothes, and then turned and shot a look at Eskel.

Eskel glared.

“If you don’t want to know my private business then don’t come pounding at my door in the middle of the night,” Eskel growled, but made no move to stop Geralt from coming in.

Geralt nodded, shoulders slumped, but came in anyway. They had both long since made the decision, silently, to not talk about the subject. Geralt knew Eskel’s feelings. Eskel knew they weren’t returned.

He shouldn’t be here, Geralt realized. He shouldn’t have interrupted Eskel’s night, not to just vent about Jaskier. He had already vented enough with Yenn, there was no need to haul Eskel into it too. But what was done was done, and he had already stuffed his foot in mud when he had started pounding on Eskel’s door.

“Out with it,” Eskel said wearily, pouring himself a glass of something strong enough to smell across the room. 

Geralt’s fingers twitched, he wasn’t good with idle hands, and simply pulled a knife to keep them busy. His brother wouldn’t mind, a tiny pen knife flipping across his fingers was no threat to him. 

There was nowhere to sit. Eskel didn’t like company staying any longer than they had to.

“Jaskier-” Geralt started, but was interrupted as Eskel groaned and downed the whole glass in one gulp.

“Of course this is about your fucking bard,” Eskel said, pouring himself a second glass.

“Not my fucking bard,” Geralt said, his body tense. “Hasn’t been my fucking bard for a decade. And then I fucking threw him away, and do you know what that moron did? He signed himself up to be a Redanian spy and got caught! Of course he got caught! He’s the shiniest thing in the room, everyone is always looking at him!

“So Nilfgaard caught him, and strung him up, and carved him like a piece of damn meat! And I wasn’t there to save him because I was too busy trying to forget that I tossed him, _my friend_ , away like a piece of garbage, and now I can’t even look at him without being reminded that it’s my fucking fault. 

“He doesn’t even play music anymore. Doesn’t sing. Just hides in his room, half blind, because I wasn’t there to fucking save him. And now all I do is show up and terrorize him.”

Geralt was heaving, his knife clenched tightly in his hands, and looked up to accept the glass of the clear liquor from Eskel. It had an ungodly burn to it as it slipped down his throat, but he needed it. Needed the pain if the alcohol wouldn’t help him to forget.

“You’re a moron,” Eskel said.

Geralt blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Had expected, well, he wasn’t sure what entirely he had expected of his brother, but nothing so simple. Maybe a rant against him hauling him out of bed in the middle of the night, or about how he deserved everything he was dealing with for what he had done.

Not… being told off in such simple terms.

“You’ve already ranted at Yenn about this,” Eskel asked.

Geralt nodded.

“And she’s told you you’re an idiot?”

Geralt nodded again.

“So why are you here? Because I’m not going to haul you out onto the training grounds in the middle of the night and pound into your thick skull that you’re an idiot. Vesemir has been trying for over a century and the lesson still hasn’t taken hold.

“So what I can tell you is that you’re an idiot. Jaskier joined the service because he wanted to, the Redanians are very good at being picky about their spies, and they wouldn’t take on a milksop that was racked with grief and suicidal. 

“And he got caught. Spies do that. Good spies do that. Death and disfigurement are consequences of life, and you know that,” Eskel raised a glass, gesturing at his own mangled face.

Geralt swallowed dryly and nodded. He had forgotten how vain Eskel had been when they had been younger, how beautiful he had been before the Path tore his face and turned him into the growling nightmare that some at court thought him to be to this day.

He really had put his foot in it by coming here. By dragging this in front of his brother. Yenn was right, he should have gone to bed.

“It’s been a hard decade for everyone. You raised a daughter, she won a war and conquered an empire, and you’re still pacing back and forth like a wild animal trapped in a cage. You need to sleep on this. And, in the morning, once you’re actually using what little common sense you have left, you can go and apologize for whatever stupid shit you did and take it from there.”

Geralt nodded sourly.

“Yenn already told you all of this, didn’t she,” Eskel rolled his eyes, “Why does everyone have to repeat themselves to you? You took to the sword so well, why couldn’t you develop common sense too?”

“I tried, but Vesemir beat it out of me,” Geralt cracked a weak grin, and Eskel snorted.

“He did have a soft spot for training you until you had none,” Eskel agreed, “Now leave, please, so I can try to get at least a few hours of sleep myself. I’m sure someone is going to bring me problems stupider than yours come the morning.”

Geralt nodded, handing the glass back to his brother and leaving quietly.

He ignored the whore dressed in black leathers that slipped back into the room behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt mopes and rants*
> 
> Everybody: ...
> 
> *Geralt continues to mope and rant*
> 
> Everybody: ... uhh
> 
> *Eskel points out that Geralt is a moron*
> 
> Everybody: ... UHH
> 
> *Geralt agrees that he's being a moron*
> 
> Everybody: UHH!!!
> 
> *Geralt and Eskel have brotherly feels*
> 
> Jaskier, speaking for the shocked Everybody: he's fucking a whore that looks like his brother!!! O.O


	10. Chapter 10

He wasn’t worried, Jaskier reassured himself. He was cautious. He was cautious because of what he had heard in the hallway the night before, and because of what he had seen during the war. He was cautious because several very angry men had had him chained down while they took turns torturing him and carving his old life away from him.

And he was cautious because he never wanted that to happen again. And he knew that all it took was for the empress to never take another breath for the power vacuum to open up and consume the world around him.

So he was cautiously standing in the shadows, cautiously letting Yennefer take all the attention from him, while they waited for a door in a hallway to open. A hallway with rather enough light to make any attempt to hide in shadows nearly look ridiculous.

But Jaskier was used to looking ridiculous. It was just easier to look this ridiculous at night, when there was less of a chance of it.

The door opened and a man with a twisted face that Jaskier could sympathize with glared at Yennefer for a moment before beckoning her within. He just rolled his eyes when Jaskier slipped in after.

“What has the moron done now,” Eskel asked, and Jaskier frowned at the lack of chairs.

Who kept a sitting room with no place to sit?

“It really depends, which moron are you speaking of,” Yennefer asked with a smile. “Your family does have so many ways to make all of us suffer for their stupidity.”

Eskel snorted and nodded, “That aside, I sent him to bed, where he stayed, after he was pacing around here last night. You have to tuck him into bed yourself if you want him to stay there, Yenn, you know that. A few words are too easily ignored.”

Jaskier glanced between the two of them. If Geralt wasn’t living with Yennefer, and it was to the point where Yennefer didn’t know of his evening affairs either, then clearly whatever relationship they had had had already fallen apart. Fucking hell, he hated the intrigue of relationships at court. Was she back to throwing massive orgies when the whim took her? Was Geralt plowing his way through every brothel in the city?

Why had he followed Yennefer through that portal? Nothing ever good came of the meddling of a sorceress. At least the fish and the siren were an easy life.

“For that I apologize, I meant to do so myself, but more pressing matters caught my attention,” Yennefer motioned at Jaskier. 

“It’s not about Geralt,” Jaskier said when Eskel turned toward him. “I overheard two men speaking in a hallway last night. They were plotting to kill Ciri, and mentioned that they had already poisoned her food but it hadn’t affected her.”

“Did they now,” Eskel mused, stroking his chin for a moment. “Lady Sparrowese took ill after a dinner a week back, and passed two days later. It was a very sudden, and very unpleasant, illness.”

“I hadn’t heard that she had passed,” Yennefer admitted. “How bad was it?”

“Quite. She was foaming at the mouth and her blood thickened in her veins. The fact that the healers were able to keep her alive for more than a few hours was a wonder, I would have given her up for dead after the first day. I’ve tried to keep it quiet at court. For the family, of course.”

Jaskier swallowed. He knew his way around a few poisons himself, though mostly just the varieties to drug someone to sleep or loosen their tongue a little. But blood poisons were amongst the nastiest varieties that were around, almost always lethal when made properly and always a painful and agonizing death. He felt sorry for the poor woman who had ended up with the dose, though thankful that Ciri had managed to sidestep that fate herself.

He would not want to think what the witchers of Kaer Morhen would have done in their grief as they tore their way through the country to find her killer.

“Anything else,” Eskel asked.

“There were two of them, passing through one of the hallways between my room and Yennefer’s. One was a local accent, but the second, the one in charge, was a light southern accent. I might be able to recognize it if I heard it again. I was behind curtains, so I didn’t see them. Their tread was light, not armored. The local one mentioned just stabbing her, but the southern one knew about her witcher training and told him no. They didn’t know that someone else was poisoned, and said they had thought she was immune to it, and that’s why it didn’t work,” Jaskier said, falling into the habit of presenting what he knew, his voice a flat neutral.

Spies kept their wits about them in the wild, they let their handlers untangle the strings themselves when in private. But he already knew where this would go, they needed to know who the men that had already made a successful attempt on Ciri’s life were. He was going to need to venture forth into public, and meet those in court. 

In a past life it would have been an easy dream, but now, with his face, he couldn’t imagine it working well at all. A soldier carried wounds, but only someone tortured would have scars like his. And very few people were actively tortured as resplendently as he had been.

“No armor,” Eskel asked.

“None that I could hear. Light footsteps, but the southern one sounded as if he belonged in the hallway. Not a servant,” Jaskier confirmed.

He was quite glad he wouldn’t have the job of interrogating the palace staff. Though, if Eskel already knew of one poisoning, he was most likely already doing so, or had done so. Jaskier remembered a time or two when he had been questioned, a traveling bard could be quite suspicious. It had never been pleasant. He could only imagine it was doubley so with a witcher involved.

“We’ll need to have you at court, then, listening for the southern accent. A day or two and you most likely will hear it,” Eskel confirmed, and Jaskier winced.

“I’m afraid my face rather fails to play the part you would have prepared for me,” Jaskier commented dryly. “Although I can just imagine it now: please, everyone, pay no mind to this scarred old man. In fact, please ignore him and spill yours secrets! But please, think of his aching bones, and come closer to spill said secrets, for he is old and weary and will not rise from the fire.”

No one would come up to him to speak, and whispers would hush while he was so obviously near. A bard from Ciri’s childhood wouldn’t even warrant enough spectacle to be entertaining to court gossip and drive people to him to discover more.

People would overlook a face as challenged as his if they thought it would bring them the good graces of the empress.

“Nonsense, we’ll make you the talk of the land,” Eskel smiled, and Yennefer frowned. “We just need to give you a proper introduction. Something to make you the gossip they all desire.”

“Eskel, don’t interfere-”

“We’ll announce that my brother is courting you, that should bring the vipers from their nests and have them fling themselves before you to curry favor with the empress.”

“I don’t think Lambert will go for it,” Jaskier said with a smile. “Though it would be entertaining to see him try. Has he ever even been to a court gathering without threatening to stab someone?”

“Lambert? No, not Lambert, that would be ridiculous,” Eskel said, patting Jaskier on the shoulder. “Geralt of course. He’s the one that wants to fuck you after all.”

Jaskier burst out laughing.

And they thought he was the fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eskel pokes Jaskier*
> 
> Eskel: I broke the bard.
> 
> *Yenn rolls her eyes and cracks open another bottle*
> 
> Yenn: trust me when I say that none of you bitches were sane in the first place.
> 
> *Jaskier gratefully accepts a drink*
> 
> *Jaskier accepts a second drink, too*


	11. Chapter 11

Yenn sighed as Eskel stared at the laughing Jaskier in poorly hidden trepidation. 

“I’ve broken him,” Eskel hissed, his voice cracking.

No, Eskel hadn’t broken the poor man. He had been broken long before she had even met him, but she couldn’t very well tell the spymaster that now. How would it look to have the only witness to a partially successful plot against your empress declared insane?

“His sense of humor leaves much to be desired,” she reassured him.

Now to wrangle the former bard into not laughing, Geralt into not storming off and stabbing, and to keep Ciri from falling off the throne while giggling like a child while watching. Because, if she knew her daughter, she would be laughing the entire time. Ciri hadn’t had her tracking the man down for the last year just because she suddenly gained an understanding for music.

No, her daughter knew as well as she did that Geralt was stuck not understanding that he had feelings for his former bard, and now it was going to turn into a court circus while he had to deal with them. And maybe even understand them.

At least it would make the next few weeks more entertaining than the normal gossip that the rumor mills thrived on.

“That was the worst joke I have ever heard,” Jaskier said, wiping tears from his eyes. “But what’s the true plan, really? Because the only thing worse I can think of is having me tempt death by courting our dear Yennefer here.”

Yenn raised an eyebrow at him, but he just grinned back at her.

She had forgotten that he could be cheeky.

“Unfortunately I actually have duties around the court that would keep any such relationship from developing in any believable manner. You’ll just have to rough it with your dear White Wolf, much like old times.”

“At least someone taught him to bathe on the regular,” Jaskier groaned. “Is there a tailor? I won’t be seen with an unfashionable suitor. No one may remember me, but I’d like my last hurrah to be remembered.”

“We can find you an army of tailors if need be,” Eskel reassured him. “So you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t nearly give my life fighting in the war to surrender now,” Jaskier said, his fingers tracing across the scars that laced across his palms.

“I leave it to you then, to put the pieces in place,” Eskel said, nodding at the sorceress.

Of course he would heap this on her plate. But, really, she already knew that he had plenty on his own. He would most likely spend every moment until the assassin was caught searching. Seeking out and bleeding the poison from their midst.

And she wished him well. For hell was a hard fury that she would happily bring down upon any that he confirmed and caught.

“This is madness, you realize,” Jaskier said as they shut the door behind them, striding back toward the former bard’s rooms.

“I thought you were familiar with court politics,” Yenn replied. “It’s always madness.”

“Yes, but normally I’m just watching it, not playing a starring role.”

“I seem to remember a few rumors about a few starring roles you played back in the day. Which count was it that you cuckolded?”

“I think I lost count on that score after the third or fourth,” Jaskier admitted. “How are you going to convince Geralt to go along with the plan? Isn’t there another witcher that you could pull from the stonework? Even Lambert might be a better choice, at least his fury is easier to deal with.”

“Most find court life unsavory, and stick to the Path. Even Vesemir refuses to stay the winter. So we’re stuck with only Geralt, and, being her father, it makes it the best lure anyway,” Yenn said, the both of them keeping silent as a maid scurried past. “I’ll have words with him first, but you’ll have to discuss everything this afternoon and tonight. I’ll present you to court tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow won’t be nearly enough time to put a wardrobe in order,” Jaskier grumbled.

“I’m sure you’ll make do. Now stay, and let me finesse some details. It does no one any good if you’ve wandered off and gotten skewered before the morning.”

“I’ll try to keep my skewering to a minimum,” Jaskier promised with a grin, and slipped into his rooms.

Now that the easy part was over, she was going to have to deal with the more difficult issue: managing to wrangle Geralt into some semblance of decency. Or, at least, decent enough to not scare off Jaskier, and make everyone smell the ruse on first sight.

Because, no matter what Geralt’s true feelings may be, his ability to express them were what was needed now.

* * *

Geralt was, as Yenn had predicted, on the training grounds. His breath heavy clouds of smoke in the cold mid morning air, the others giving him a wide berth. Witchers, traditionally, only trained with their own. It was for the safety of everyone, Vesemir had told her when she had asked.

While witchers could control their strength well enough to train with mortals, Ciri was proof enough of that, sometimes the men they were training with could not control themselves. And a witcher was taught to defend his life in all circumstances.

Eskel had told her it was merely they didn’t like slowing down to bring themselves to the level of the others, and it was just easier to train alone. That she could see, Lambert would have happily rendered half the guard unconscious with a wooden sword before he lowered himself to the slowness of a human swung blade, and bragged about it while drinking their liquor later. 

Geralt just snapped and glared enough that no one wanted to go near him on a good day. 

Today, she was quite sure, was not going to be a good day. Hopefully she could throw him at Eskel later and let him blow off some steam. Or Lambert would finally get back, he had said he would return for the feast, and the two could go at it until they both dropped. It would solve dealing with a snappish Geralt and Lambert.

“Put your sword down,” Yenn said, coming up behind the shirtless man.

She wasn’t even going to bother to ask where his shirt was. He always seemed to lose it a few hours into training. It was too hot this far south was his excuse.

Geralt just glowered at her, but lowered his blade. At least he had merely been practicing his kata this time instead of slaughtering training dummies. It saved in cleanup and expenses.

“You and I need to speak,” she said, glancing around, “In private.”

“Not another lecture about using words,” Geralt snapped, “I’ll try later. I’m training now.”

“Lectures about words have never done you good, and you have never listened,” Yenn replied, glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot.

She didn’t know which ears were attached to hands that held blades. And she didn’t want to tip her hand before Eskel had a chance to cut off those hands and string up the bodies across the gates.

“Your rooms, ten minutes,” Yenn said, her voice low enough that only Geralt would hear it, hopefully. “It’s important.”

Geralt stiffened, and nodded. They may still banter back and forth, but he knew when she was serious. They had fought together, and he could still read her more easily than she would like. He would be in his rooms within ten minutes, and most likely angry and storming back onto the training field again two minutes after.

But there was nothing for that. Making a show in front of the court was one thing, but they couldn’t twist Geralt from being Geralt or people would doubt the veracity of the act.

She could only wonder if Jaskier was better at keeping the wolf’s temper in check than she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yenn: now come on, we have to be sneaky elsewhere. The walls have ears.
> 
> *Geralt's hand tightens on his sword*
> 
> Yenn: the walls have _stupid_ ears too!
> 
> Jaskier, from a great distance: I'm still the prettiest!
> 
> Yenn: point made. Stupid ears. Let's go.


	12. Chapter 12

“Mother, what have you done now,” Ciri asked, glancing at Yenn as she lounged on the settee, a book in her hands.

“Why, whatever do you mean,” Yenn smiled, closing the book carefully.

Ciri just cocked an eye at her, and grabbed a cheese pastry from the food that had been laid out on the table for her lunch. She motioned for Yenn to have some, but the sorceress just shook her head and watched as Ciri happily helped herself to several meat pastries, some fruit, and a glass of wine.

“You dine like your father,” Yenn commented dryly.

“Nonsense, I didn’t need to use a knife once,” Ciri objected, stuffing several pieces of hard cheese in her mouth.

“Not quite what I was getting at,” Yenn sighed, rising from her seat and pulling forth a handkerchief to wipe at Ciri’s face.

Ciri rolled her eyes but stood still. She knew it was useless to argue with her mother, her mother always won in the end. At least when it came to court formalities she did. And Ciri was rather happy to let her, because she loathed having to wear her smiling mask and bite her tongue around the nobles, but it was necessary. Necessary to keep her kingdom stable and her people safe.

So, if she had to stand and have her face wiped and be lectured like a child, again, then so be it. 

She’d learn one day. She just didn’t need to today. And, in the privacy of her own study, it was nice to let the mask slip and simply be a daughter again instead of an empress.

“You know I won’t stop until you tell me what you’re hiding,” Ciri said, finally pushing her mother’s fussy hands from her face.

She hadn’t been that messy with her lunch.

“You hurt me, child,” Yenn laughed. “But you’ll need to know sooner rather than later. I’m just surprised that one of Eskel’s little birds didn’t grace your presence first.”

“I’m sure they tried,” Ciri said, slumping into the over stuffed chair facing the settee. “But I’ve been in meetings all morning, and they haven’t had a chance to fly past.”

“Good, I did so want to break the news to you,” Yenn smiled, sitting down on the settee. “Your father is courting Jaskier.”

Ciri stared at her mother. No, that couldn’t be right. Yes, she had had her mother track down the former bard so that her father could apologize and appease some of the guilt he still felt. He hadn’t been doing a tremendously good job at it, last she had heard, and she had certainly heard a lot through gossip, but this was ridiculous. Her father wouldn’t know what to do with a stable relationship if it came out of the sky spouting fire and razing the lands.

“Your joy has left you speechless, I hope,” Yenn said, and Ciri glared at her.

Now she understood. Her mother was still grinning like a particularly pleased cat. It must all be a joke of some sort, though she failed to see how it was funny. Her father wasn’t good with emotions, that was true, no witcher was, but she wouldn’t see him made the butt of a joke for it.

“That’s not funny, mother,” Ciri said with a growl. “Leave him be.”

“Unfortunately, she cannot,” a voice said from behind, and Ciri groaned as her uncle Eskel slipped into the room.

“Don’t tell me you’re in on this as well,” Ciri said. “I thought better of you, uncle.”

“You’ll always think better of me because I won’t hold back the full story,” Eskel said, glaring at Yenn. “There was an attempt on your life recently, and the young Lady Sparrowese is the one that took the fatal bite that saved it. Jaskier managed to put himself in a position to have heard the plotters, but has not seen them.

“To find them, I must have him around court. And the only way to properly do that, and draw the vipers toward him, is with something juicy enough that none of them could resist. Everyone knows he traveled with your father extensively, so it won’t look unusual to have them step up their rather unique relationship.”

“Father is going to gut you,” Ciri pointed out.

“Geralt has never been able to best me in training,” Eskel reassured her with a grin. “Though we will have to tighten several awkward spots of security in the meantime. Jaskier should never have been able to creep around unseen where he was, and no poison should have reached a served dish.”

“Oh fuck, does this mean more guards and twittering buffoons following me around? I’m better than most of them already, if you’d just let me carry a sword around I could end a few of these attempts sooner rather than later.”

“All the sword wielding in the world didn’t save your grandmother, Ciri,” Eskel reminded her. “Let me to my job, and you to yours.”

“Fine. But I’m blaming you when father breaks whatever it is that he’s going to break next.”

“Hopefully Lambert,” Yenn sighed. “He still owes me for losing our last drinking contest.”

Eskel and Ciri stared at the sorceress, but she merely shrugged and settled back into her book and ignored them.

* * *

Jaskier held his arms outstretched as the tailor measured him. The man was ancient, but his three apprentices at least looked spritely enough to finish the job should their master drop dead. Although one could never tell at times, a little elf blood could go a long way he had heard, and he wondered if that is how the old master tailor had managed to be lingering around courts for as long as even Jaskier could remember.

“Now, have you started thinking about your wedding garments,” the old tailor asked, taking a long look at the measurements his red headed assistant had jotted down.

“Geralt and I haven’t quite discussed our plans quite yet,” Jaskier said, “I assume he’ll be in black.”

“Yes, he does have a preference for that color,” the old tailor sighed. “Such a shame, colors are beautiful this time of year. Especially with the holidays approaching.”

Jaskier stretched, joints popping and his left knee aching, and longed to be able to sit. He had been standing for measurements and fabric selections for what seemed like hours. He didn’t remember clothing being this tedious when he had been younger. Had he ever cared about the difference between amber threads or gold on certain fabrics?

He liked to think he had had better things to think about.

“I was wondering,” Jaskier asked, giving the fabrics a glance again. “Might I get some clothes in a sturdy wool and canvas as well?”

“Whatever for,” the tailor asked, the apprentices pausing as they began to gather the samples together.

“Geralt and I still intend to travel from time to time. They’d be good for the road,” Jaskier said with a smile.

They’d be good on a boat with a cold, stiff gale. The least the court could do for having him go through with this madness is provide him with some new, proper clothes that he could wear on ship. His old clothes had disappeared after the first night, probably burned, and he would need them replaced.

He was far too old to think that the silks he had chosen would last more the a few minutes on a fishing vessel. Or that he would last a day without freezing to death.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t keep stock of such things normally,” the old tailor admitted.

No, he doubted he did. But, given current circumstances, it was not like he could slip into the city and purchase any himself unseen. 

“Do what you can, they need to be more sturdy than fashionable so a plain fabric would do just fine.”

The tailor nodded, and the apprentices finished bundling up the fabrics as the door shot open and all eyes were drawn to the heaving madman standing there.

“Oh Geralt, the whole court is speaking of our happy news,” Jaskier smiled.

Geralt continued to glare, stepping aside to let the tailors scurry out before slamming the door behind them.

Apparently he would have to lead the damn witcher through some acting lessons if they were to convince the court that they weren’t about to strangle one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator: and now we know the reason why Lambert is not at court.
> 
> Lambert: fuck that shit, it's a crock of lies!
> 
> Yenn: lies, really? Care to double the wager next time, then?
> 
> Lambert: why the fuck does every woman I talk to want me to pay them!?
> 
> Everyone: ... o.o
> 
> *Yenn turns Lambert into a toad, and nothing of value was lost*


	13. Chapter 13

“Quit glaring, sit down, and either shut up or make it sound like we’re in the throes of passion. I’m neither as skilled as Eskel or as talented as Yennefer, so I have no clue if anyone is listening at the door,” Jaskier snapped, collapsing into a chair with a groan. “Though, given the looks on their faces, probably only the youngest apprentice would dare put his ear up to listen in for gossip. He’s not nearly as good as he thinks he is, with wandering eyes searching the room that obviously.”

Geralt wasn’t growling, for that Jaskier was thankfully, but he was still looming there, clearly angry.

Fuck. He must have heard a rumor rather than getting told what was going on. If he had been told he would have been awkward and snappish, now he truly looked more akin to an angry bear. He would have to have words with Eskel about this later, his brother was supposed to be his bother.

“Fine, stand there,” Jaskier said. “There’s a murder plot to kill Ciri. I overheard the men planning it the other night, but didn’t see them. Eskel just needs me to be around members of the court to find the plotters, and this was the only way to ensure as many came to say hello to me as possible without being suspicious. 

“As soon as Eskel has nabbed them we can drop the act and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Geralt’s stance shifted, but his face still read the stoic fury that Jaskier remembered from decades past. He was accepting the notion of why this was being done, but he did not enjoy his part of it. Not that any of them thought that Geralt would. Jaskier had known that they’d have better luck parading a tree stump around court, but it would honestly attract less attention to have Geralt rather than the tree stump.

He just wished he could give apologies that Geralt had taken ill and couldn’t attend a single function. But, alas, a witcher’s healing ability was very well known. Maybe he could claim there was a monster nearby that needed slaying? Or that witchers had to do some sort of ritual fasting in isolation? Would that be an acceptable excuse?

At this point that would be far more acceptable than running around with a Geralt that looked like he was about to throttle him. No one would believe any form of romance passed between them at all with a face like that.

“Geralt, it’s to protect the empress, nothing more,” Jaskier tried to placate him. “No one is trying to trick you into anything. Hell, you don’t even have to be around when I’m off drawing attention. Just try to look like I’m something more than a slug to you.”

“You’re not a slug,” Geralt snapped, his fists tightening as he began to pace.

Pacing was better than standing still. Still bad, but better. At this rate he’d be able to get Geralt up to not looking like he wanted to kill him by dinner.

“Then you’ll have to work on your face,” Jaskier informed him. “No one will believe you with a smile, but something a little less terrifying when you look my way. And close contact. Hand holding, brushing against one another.”

“I can do that,” Geralt growled. 

No he bloody well couldn’t, Jaskier thought to himself. He tried to think about Geralt’s romantic trysts from during their travels, but they were all either him paying whores or him and Yennefer snapping at one another before another round of hate sex. It was Jaskier that had the romances and sweet talked his lover, and piled on the simple caresses.

Fuck. If any of the women, or men, at court remembered him from decades past they wouldn’t accept him just standing near Geralt as a sign of romance at all.

Or, even better, they could see it as a sign of trouble in the relationship. Maybe everyone would think they were putting on a brave face for some silly reason, and the rumors would fly from there. Vinegar did tend to attract more flies than honey, after all. 

He could work with that. He could pretend to be the desperate lover, trying to play a blind eye to the fact he was on the way out. It wouldn’t explain the engagement though, not with him not having been at court to establish a relationship in the first place. And no one would believe that Geralt was hasty, certainly not hasty enough to do anything like courting someone he didn’t care for.

Jaskier could play sick and pretend it was for sympathy? He was certainly scarred enough that no one would notice if his pallor was at issue. Play up that Geralt felt guilty that he had been captured and tortured? 

No. None of them fit Geralt, and the court would know Geralt well enough by now to smell a fish where a rose should be.

“Sit down, you’re wearing a hole in the rug with your brooding,” Jaskier snapped, still mulling the situation over in his head.

He had done many wondrous and amazing things in his life, but pulling this off may be a miracle that was beyond him. Could he make it seem like Geralt was faking the courtship to divert the fact that it was Eskel that was doing the courting? A spymaster wouldn’t like his desires so publicly known, and the court was full of cuckolds. He had certainly made enough of them in his younger days.

Geralt was standing there, still glowering, but at least he had stopped his pacing. Jaskier could almost see his brain generating tiny little explosions as he attempted to control his temper. He should really give the other man a break, Geralt wasn’t the spy, and he had never really been any good at deception. 

Given his reaction over the past few days, Jaskier knew how the white wolf felt about deception. It was amazing that he was still on talking terms with Eskel at all.

“I know you don’t want to be involved in any of this. I remember you commenting about how you wanted no one needing you. But you’ve moved on past this, you’ve grown. This is for Ciri; she needs you now, not I,” Jaskier said, being honest. “It’s just for a few days, until Eskel can catch the men I heard in the hallway. Until the feast at latest, and then I’ll be gone and you can return to your life as it has ever been; without such deceitful complications.”

Geralt remained silent for another few moments, staring at the floor, and Jaskier tried not to count the seconds. A moment swam into the next, and he could almost hear his old bones creaking in the settled silence. He knew Geralt would agree to this, would do this for his daughter, but he needed for him to do more than just grudgingly agree.

He needed Geralt to participate in this little charade. To bow his stubborn head and be a little more than he had been. Or, at least, a little different. Just long enough to help save the empress.

“I agreed,” Geralt finally said, and Jaskier was pleased to hear that his voice had dropped the timber of anger and was just the normal growl. “But I do not know what you need of me.”

“Don’t worry, let me take the lead and just follow along. The court knows you for your silence, so you won’t be troubled with having to recite poetry in my general direction. Though it would be appreciated,” Jaskier grinned cheekily as Geralt glared at him.

“We can start with a kiss, and go from there,” Jaskier smiled, standing and leaning in.

Geralt stood, stiff, and Jaskier sighed. It was like trying to kiss a statue. That wouldn’t do.

“It’s okay to close your eyes. Or just look at my right side,” Jaskier told him.

His right side was still human enough to at least be a little attractive. He hoped.

Geralt closed his eyes, but the kiss was still as difficult as practicing with a tree. How had Yennefer ever managed to have sex with a man that was as unwieldy as this?

Most likely quite easily, because Geralt was enthused by everything Jaskier was not. 

“We can discuss more tonight, in your chambers,” Jaskier sighed, taking a step back. “Try to get used to closing your eyes and thinking of Yennefer, or whatever pretty face took your fancy last. This must seem real for the ruse to work, Geralt.”

“My chambers-” Geralt started.

“It would look odd for us to live apart. Don’t worry, I don’t hog the sheets.”

Geralt glared at him and Jaskier just grinned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: we just have to pull off this plot
> 
> *Geralt glares*
> 
> Jaskier: it'll be super easy, barely an inconvenience!
> 
> *Geralt continues to glare*
> 
> *Jaskier kisses Geralt*
> 
> *Geralt continues to glare*
> 
> Jaskier: well, this plan is fucked.
> 
> And, as an aside, I have updated the tags to include 'torture'. It'll be coming up in about a week or so.


	14. Chapter 14

Geralt swung the sword again, going through the old, familiar training forms and letting his mind go over the events of the day. He should have been suspicious the moment he couldn’t find either Eskel or Yenn that morning. Should have known they were plotting.

Should have known that Jaskier was involved.

But instead all he had received was a confusing congratulations about Jaskier… and then Jaskier himself. With a plan so completely unmanageable and insane only Jaskier could have thought of it. Fake a relationship to lure out assassins. It was like something out of those terrible summer carnival plays.

Only this wasn’t a summer carnival, this was a new court of a new empire that was still battling to resist collapsing in upon itself. Nilfgaard had scoured the land, and it was only just now beginning to recover, slowly but surely. It would be so easy for it burn down and be rebuilt by someone else. To lose a chunk of land here, and another there, until it was nothing but a memory of a nation and a collection of warring states once more.

And Jaskier was trying to fight the latest little blaze by thinking parading around with him at court was a good idea, and he still couldn’t get over his guilt long enough to stand in the same room as the man.

His sword was deflected and he blinked, staring at Eskel, confused.

“You lose yourself too much in the fight and forget your surroundings,” Eskel said with a smile. “You’ll get killed on the Path that way.”

“Done a fair bit better than you though, I imagine,” Geralt laughed, lowering his sword.

“You’ve spoken to Jaskier,” Eskel said, pulling off his fancy doublet and tossing it on a fence to the side.

Geralt nodded, noticing that, for once, the area was eerily empty. Leave it to Eskel to manage to arrange to not be spied upon. Or, at least, no one would overhear anything they said. He had no doubt that there were all sorts of people watching where he couldn’t see.

He loathed the court for that reason, and longed for the Path again. In the spring, he reassured himself. He would return to the Path in the spring. Ciri was old enough, and wise enough, that she didn’t need him lingering over her shoulder any longer.

She could stand on her own two feet, proud and strong.

“You couldn’t have told me what was going on yourself,” Geralt grunted, parrying a particularly nice jab.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Eskel said, kicking out at Geralt’s knee.

Geralt took the hit and took the opportunity to swing an elbow into Eskel’s face. Eskel spat blood, but blocked the next blow with a feral grin.

It wasn’t really a sparring match if no one got bloody.

“The little fucker lectured me on acting,” Geralt snapped. “Kissed me and lectured me on what I was doing _wrong_.”

“Geralt, if an old man needs to lecture you on how bad your kissing is,” Eskel slammed the butt of his sword into Geralt’s chest. “Then you’ve fucked up. Just have fun for a few days, take a tumble.”

Geralt growled, snapping his teeth at Eskel as he blocked another blow from the flat of his sword, and swung again. It would be useless to use signs, they weren’t even supposed to use half of them because no one liked rebuilding the damn area, but mostly because Eskel was better than him with them.

Fucking vain prick.

“Don’t want to bed him,” Geralt growled. “Just want to apologize for not saving him.”

“Apologize with your dick?”

“I’m not Lambert.”

“And thank all the stars in heaven for that,” Eskel said, ducking a high blow and slamming his foot into Geralt’s knee again. “Although Lambert would at least play along.”

“Lambert would just gut every southern lord here and let you sort it out,” Geralt said between grit teeth, his knee throbbing.

He needed to watch that. He was out of practice, and he still needed to at least be able to walk later. Eskel just grinned as he watched Geralt stumble midstep. He knew he was winning.

“That would fucking suck to sort,” Eskel agreed. “But can you work with Jaskier? I can take the heat-”

“No,” Geralt roared, cutting his brother off and swinging wildly at him.

“I see,” Eskel grinned, dancing back quickly and dropping into a guarded stance. Geralt could see his hands twitching to call a sign, but he resisted.

“You and Yenn,” Geralt said. “I don’t know where you get it.”

“You traveled with him for twenty years,” Eskel pointed out. “And he still manages to take you off balance. Sort things out with him, he’ll understand. He’s smarter than you.”

Geralt gnashed his teeth, forcing Eskel back with a series of attacks. Eskel blocked the kick toward his own knee, and managed to catch Geralt in the face with the butt of his sword and topple the white wolf onto his back. A quick kick had Geralt’s sword out of reach, and Eskel had his blade at his brother’s neck.

“I know you’re not good with the past or emotions, brother,” Eskel sighed, still standing over him. “But you need to change with the times. The Path dwindles a little more every year, and humanity expands. You need to learn to at least blend with them, and that means knowing how to use your emotions. And how to talk to people.”

“I know how to-”

“Outside of the battlefield,” Eskel stopped him. “Consider this like training. Learn a new skill to help keep you alive. And learn how to let go of the past while you still can, because Jaskier is human and he won’t be around much longer. None of them ever are.”

Geralt stilled at that. He had tried to forget, for a moment, that, no matter what he did, it would still end the same. Jaskier would be dead, some day soon, because that’s what humans did; they died. Would Ciri be the same? Or would her magic lengthen her stride a little longer, keep her around for a few more years while the court around her withered into dust.

“I can hear you thinking,” Eskel smiled, offering Geralt his hand.

“Shut up,” Geralt sighed wearily. 

“You don’t need to bed him,” Eskel said. “But do play along, I do need him to help snag the men he heard the other night. Talk with him, sort yourself out, and make peace with whatever has crawled up your ass and died.”

“You sound like Lambert,” Geralt told him.

“That’s not always a bad thing. He’s still alive,” Eskel said. “Don’t tell him I said that.

“And quit brooding.”

“The world would sooner end,” Geralt laughed, but nodded, wincing as he put weight on his knee.

It would take a few hours to heal properly, but he had the time. And Eskel was right, he did need to talk with Jaskier, honestly, without his temper getting in the way. Without getting angry. Without being himself.

It was like training, he reassured himself. He was training to fit in with humans. 

“Why couldn’t you have spread the rumor that Jaskier was courting Yenn instead,” Geralt asked wearily.

“Because she can’t block knives as well as you,” Eskel explained.

Geralt shot him a look.

“Jaskier is good, but he’s also good at getting caught. If one of the plotters catches wind that Jaskier may know who they are, they will try to get rid of him. You’re just better at blocking knives than she is. And no one would ever believe the two of them are courting, they snap and drink too much. Your established history makes you the better choice.”

“Ask me next time, brother,” Geralt glowered. “At least give me a warning. The damn bard has already moved into my rooms and ordered an entire fucking wardrobe.”

“Maybe he’ll get you in something other than black,” Eskel grinned.

“And maybe he’ll bring you another seven plots to pound your head with.”

“If only it were that easy,” Eskel sighed, pulling his doublet back on. “Talk with him Geralt, I mean it.”

“I shall, brother,” Geralt reassured him.

And he would. He had let his emotions get in the way of what was needed; protecting Ciri. It wouldn’t happen again. He just needed a very stiff drink first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt and Eskel share brotherly emotions while fighting*
> 
> *Eskel shares advice*
> 
> *Geralt may actually take said good advice*
> 
> *Yenn knocks back ten more shots and doubles her bet that Geralt is going to fuck something up*
> 
> *Jaskier matches Yenn shot for shot because he knows Geralt is going to fuck something up*


	15. Chapter 15

Jaskier had settled himself in one of the reading rooms that seemed to populate the palace. It was a smaller one, cozy with carpets, stuffed chairs, and blankets. And at least a half dozen servants coming through to check on things from time to time, keep his tea warm and the offer of delightful little treats well stocked.

A perfect spot to, slowly, catch wind of the whispers of the court. He would have preferred an outer courtyard, but the autumn chill scared off any attempt at romanticism he had left. He was too old to be relaxing against trees in the soon to be snow, and anyone would see right through it. No, curled up, covered in a blanket, and reading a more recent book of poetry made sense.

It was non threatening. He was an older gentleman, a war veteran, and could be seen to have a soft spot, with a love of poetry and romance. He may not pull a southern lord with his first bite, but the little fish would bring the larger ones soon enough.

And so he patiently waited and enjoyed the words the sprawled across the page as elegantly as any he had ever written. It was good to know that, while Ciri may not be as fond of literature herself, she was certainly encouraging the arts. Several of the other smaller salons had been occupied with a musician or two as well, though mostly the more delicate background music he had never been able to truly master.

What was the point of music if you couldn’t turn the attention of the entire room toward you, after all. He had been so foolish and magnificent when he had been younger. He was nearly jealous of himself, and the fool hardy mistakes he had made in his youth.

Twenty years he had made a mistake of caring for a single man. He certainly had not made that mistake after.

He noticed that the servants had shifted in their timing. A few more frequent than others, several eyeing him. No whispers, but he knew the little minnows were swimming away to spread their little tales to other schools. Soon enough he would find conversation drawing him away from this lovely poetry.

It would be sad, but there was nothing saying the book couldn’t come with him at the end of this, tucked away in a little pocket. He would certainly love to be able to finish the prose that was so well written. Maybe even be able to meet the poet themselves, if they were attending court. So many poets did enjoy the sponsorship of courtly ladies in the colder months. Warm beds in winter refreshed many for hot summers on the trail.

And then he heard it. The delicate little patter of shoes across the polished floor. Not the sturdy steps of the servants or the solid gate of the guards, but softness of a lady. A group of ladies, judging by the echo and the firm swish of stiff fabric. 

Ladies in courtly dress. His little lure had pulled a small school. Now to see if any of them would fall to temptation and nibble. Observing him was one thing, they could send the most awful rumors spreading of his appearance and age floating through the court within the hour. But that wouldn’t be enough. They would want to know more.

And to know more meant conversation. Gentle, delicate, conversation. With little knives sharpened and ready with each word, waiting to draw blood and bring back a victory to speak of further. But Jaskier had been raised to play this game, had slept his way happily through courts playing this game.

He merely needed one of them to make the first move and come forward for him to allow the first few drops of blood to be drawn.

They made a play of not noticing him as they settled in the room. The ruffled twitters of gentle conversation, nothing interesting he could note quite yet, and the meaningless nonsense that they used to give themselves courage. Whoever lost this little game would be the one sent over. Most likely whomever was lowest on the social totem pole.

He couldn’t clearly make out their murmurers, the room was small enough to be cozy but large enough not to be clearly overheard. Delightful and safe for an introduction, really. But, soon enough, he caught a few comments discussing poetry. And a currently popular poet amongst the ladies of the court.

The poet that had penned the same book he was so carefully reading, appearing to hang on every word like a true romantic.

Now all that remained was for one of the silk clad delights to come over and introduce herself. He had made quite sure that he had the only copy of this same book in the room, so as to allow them the excuse as to inquiring about the volume.

This dance was an enjoyable one when lives weren’t on the line. And he very much doubted that any of these women had the contacts necessary to even dare attempt to put a knife in the empress’ back. Never reach more than a head or two above yourself in social circles, or you risk the entire court returning the blade with swift justice.

But they would bring word of intrigue to larger fish, and one of them would swim with the little school where his murderer lay in murky water.

Patience was a virtue that his elder years granted him in spades. For it took nearly an hour, and two refreshed cups of tea, before one of the ladies made her way over to him.

Her face was a perfect mask of innocent curiosity. Ever the elegance that was demanded at court, though he admired the fact that Ciri, by setting precedence with her own preference for plain hair and little makeup, had taken some of the theatrics out of the court’s battle faces.

The little minnow sat politely in the chair next to his.

Jaskier continued to be enthralled in his poetry, carefully turning the page.

Little minnow, take a bite, he thought to himself. Little minnow, be daring and brave.

“Excuse me,” her voice was soft, and Jaskier blinked and looked up in feigned surprise.

“Oh, hello there,” he smiled. “Can I help you...”

He waited for a name.

“Lady Kess,” she smiled politely. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove,” Jaskier offered. “Though please, simply call me Jaskier.”

The group observing them tittered, but he had heard one sharp inhale at the mention of Lettenhove. The area had not been rich in anything but sea rights, but the razing of the lands had been particularly gruesome. Nilfgaard’s hunt for any place where Geralt could have gone to ground, he supposed. Geralt would not have known of the connection, but he certainly had when he had heard of its destruction.

“You’re new to court, aren’t you,” she asked curiously. “A friend of Empress Cirilla’s father, aren’t you?”

“Betrothed,” Jaskier corrected kindly. “Though my responsibilities took me away from court for a number of years, and I find that I am all out of sorts here in my old age.”

“Oh,” Lady Kess feigned shocked amazement. “We never heard of his romances, though he largely does keep to himself these days.”

“All days, you mean. Witchers do enjoy their solitude. It’s the training, you see,” Jaskier explained.

“But you aren’t one of them,” Lady Kess asked, her eyes wide. “Only I had rather heard that they were only enamored with one another, and not us dainty mortals.”

“Oh,” Jaskier pressed, his little gossip sense tingling. There was more here, and most likely nothing important, but something he wanted to know none the less.

“Yes, well, I really shouldn’t say anything untoward about the Empress’ uncle, but,” she smiled, looking around with a glint in her eyes and lowering her voice. “Rumor has it that he does enjoy the company of several paid men that bear a striking resemblance to your beloved.”

Jaskier fought the urge to snort at that. Eskel, paying Geralt look alike whores and letting people find out? That was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Although he didn’t doubt more than a few witchers had tumbled with each other over the centuries, it must have been a little lonely in their hidden fortresses.

“I see,” Jaskier said, feigning surprise. “I had no idea. I do not know Sir Eskel rather well, but that is certainly quite the news! Even more so than the audacity of these southern lords attempting to court our dear Empress so openly.”

Lady Kess gave a ladylike laugh into her hand, and nodded. Good, she had taken a bite. Now to see what she knew, though he doubted anything worthwhile if she was busy gossiping about Eskel amongst her little friends. But, to every little comment their was a seed of truth, and hopefully he could find this one.

“They are so bold these days! Why, Lord Tevnar has nearly been biting at the bit to declare he has won the race. But our dear Empress has certainly made her skill with steel known, so he has not dared even approach her!”

Jaskier did snort at that. Congratulations to Ciri, she’s managed to sidestep one pompous moron simply by knowing how to wield a sword instead of needing to wield it in this southern lord’s general direction. He doubted a fool like that had ever so much as taken a step onto the battlefield during the war.

“Quite the shock,” Jaskier agreed when Lady Kess made a pause for him to comment.

“Quite! Not a single lady in court will have anything to do-”

“Lady Kess,” a second voice called out, and another minnow swam his way.

To join the gossip, he hoped. But he rather doubted it, given the expression on her face.

“Oh, Lady Lovelia,” Lady Kess rose and curtsied.

Ah, the leader of their little pack. A touch more dignified than the rest, and clearly attempting to hide her irritation with Lady Kess. She had been sent to gather a little gossip under the guise of most likely getting the book of poetry. But, instead, Jaskier had bled her.

“I am so sorry, she does like to dawdle so,” the Lady Lovelia apologized, her lips thin. “I do hope she has not been overly distracting.”

“Oh no, not at all. She has merely been helping me catch up with the customs of the court. It has been so long since I’ve last been, you see,” Jaskier smiled.

“I do hope you well,” Lady Lovelia gave an insultingly shallow curtsy for addressing the soon to be step father to the empress, and left the room, Lady Kess and the other two trailing behind her.

Jaskier just grinned to himself and returned to his book. He doubted he would catch any others with a hook this afternoon, but he had learned a lot from a very little. The southern lords were not amongst the popular, and many were thought of as base cowards. It certainly helped build a foundation of dedication to the Empress. 

But, also, it also put him in the awkward position of others thinking that Geralt could possible be cheating on him with his brothers. It could build a feeling of sympathy, and perhaps a few tongues would be all the more easily loosened.

If he played his cards right, some clever little southern lord may even decide to use such a rumor of infidelity to attempt to bring him into confidence in a plot against the empire. Scorned lovers had turned for less, after all.

But, for now, he happily enjoyed the warmth of the room and the heady bliss of good poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier hums thrilling spy music to himself*
> 
> Jaskier: I'm all sorts of sneaky! I'll learn all the things!
> 
> Random Court Minion #617: witchers like weird witcher incest
> 
> Jaskier: ... I forgot that all anyone talks about is sex. Why is no one talking about murder!? Or at least taking pictures!
> 
> *Eskel glares in the background*


	16. Chapter 16

Jaskier leaned against the door as it closed behind him with a sigh. A long, overly dramatic, sigh. Childish, he knew, but he needed it. It was exhausting having your every move studied and your every word analyzed. He was the grand toy on display for all the greedy little children.

He didn’t remember it being this exhausting when he had been younger. 

Well, normally not exhausting. The capture and torture part had been far, far worse.

Jaskier straightened suddenly as he noticed something moving and turned his head to get a clear view. He missed his left eye. It left him unbalanced at times, not being able to see everything. How many details of life had gone unnoticed in the last decade all because they had the misfortune of being to his left?

But it was nothing dangerous, just Geralt. Of course it was Geralt, these were his rooms, after all. It would be odd for him to not be here, nearing dinner. As far as Jaskier had been able to surmise, Geralt honestly didn’t do a lot at court besides be grumpy and train. 

He held a shirt in his hands, and Jaskier noticed the sweat in his hair. Training then. 

“Come on, let’s get you into a bath, I can’t have you wandering around looking like that. It would do horrors for my reputation,” Jaskier smiled, hauling him toward the bathing chamber he had found earlier.

Geralt followed along, dipping his hand into the full stone basin and making a quick sign. Jaskier stared in amazement as wisps of heat quickly formed, and glared at the witcher. All those years they had traveled together, and not once had he done that! Not once! Not while bathing in frigid rivers, and not in tepid tubs. 

“It only really works in water contained in something nonflammable,” Geralt grunted in way of explanation.

“Otherwise everything is on fire and we find ourselves getting kicked out from another inn, I take it,” Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded, stripping down and climbing in. Jaskier glanced around, and added a few of the faintly scented bath salts and grabbed a flask of what he hoped was hair oil. At least the man knew how to use soap, finally. Though he was sure it wasn’t of his own choosing. 

“And the rivers? I don’t think they were very flammable,” Jaskier said, carefully working suds through Geralt’s hair.

A decade away from the man, and it felt like it hadn’t even been a day. The calming familiarity of washing Geralt’s hair, again, let him relax. He had missed this. This intimacy with another. For all the fucking around he had done, quite literally, he had never shared this level of closeness with any of his bed partners. There was something comforting about it, of the soap and the water and of Geralt trusting him to get this close, that no one else could come close to matching.

No one else had ever matched. 

He massaged Geralt’s head, working his way from his temples to the base of his neck, working out the frigid exhaustion the other man was holding. It seemed some things never changed, and Geralt had still not learned to relax.

Or learned how to avoid getting injured, judging from several of the new scars he saw trailing across his body.

“Running water doesn’t hold heat,” Geralt muttered, leaning into Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier had to roll his eyes at that. Leave it to Geralt to know how to warm water, but only under very specific, completely useless during travel, circumstances. Him and his bloody pinecone were the perfect example of his life. Jaskier took a little more oil and began to run it through Geralt’s beard. 

For all the Geralt had walked around covered in gore for all those years, he really was amazingly fastidious when it came to his hair.

He looked down in surprise as Geralt held his left hand, tracing fingers across it with a frown.

Ah, yes, he had gathered scars of his own over the last decade. His hands were a far cry from the callused, but unblemished, things of the past. At least he had gotten all of the splinters out. At least they no longer throbbed in the night with the memory of those long, painful days.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally said softly, still holding Jaskier’s hand gently within his own.

“You weren’t the one with the wicked imagination, you have nothing to be sorry about,” Jaskier sighed, carefully taking his hand back.

“I should have… I should have saved you. Should have known you were in trouble,” Geralt’s voice hitched. “You were my friend, I should have known. Should have come. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier swallowed, gently rinsing Geralt’s beard with a little cup. He had wanted to hear words like this from the man back then. Had wanted Geralt to come and find him, beg his forgiveness, and swear to never be harsh and cross with him again.

But those were the delusions of a broken heart. Geralt had always been surly. Had always snapped and bit at the hand that was kindest and nearest. Had torn Jaskier’s heart from his chest without a care more than once, and never looked back. And never apologized.

He had stopped wanting that apology shortly after Nilfgaard had taken his left eye. Had realized it would never come, that Geralt would never come, by then.

And yet, here he was, a decade later, and he had fallen into old habits with old wishes. And it was presented to him, on a stunning silver platter.

But he found he didn’t want it. Geralt was handsome, but he was an asshole. Still an asshole. And Jaskier couldn’t keep pining after him, hoping he had changed. Because he hadn’t, and no moment of softness was going to change that.

Geralt was the hero. He saved people. It’s what he did. But he broke them, too, if they strayed too close.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier tried to reassure him. “Others saved me. Can’t always be you charging in with a sword, need to lend the spotlight to others from time to time.”

Geralt shifted, sinking down into the water, his shoulders hunched, but Jaskier ignored it. Let him be the one to be bit and broken a little for once. It wouldn’t still his tongue or silence his actions, he had spent twenty years watching Geralt not learn, twenty years of being the one that the witcher hurt again and again because he just didn’t care enough not to. Had chased him, hoping that Geralt would open his eyes and see him. 

Hoping that Geralt would care enough to really, truly, see him.

“We’re still friends, Geralt,” Jaskier added.

And he hoped they were. He had been in love with the man for nearly half his life, had been broken and tossed away by him. Had watched him throw everything away time and time again out of sheer brute stubbornness. And maybe it would break what was left of his heart to be Geralt’s friend, again, but he couldn’t throw him away as completely as Geralt had thrown him.

He didn’t have that within himself. Geralt was still his friend, all these years later. But he couldn’t love him like he had. Because that would be the bitter death of him, he knew, and then he would be of no use to anyone.

“Thank you,” Geralt muttered, and Jaskier continued to wash his hair silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: did you know people are gossiping about Eskel fucking whores that look like you? Too weird!
> 
> *Geralt stills*
> 
> Jaskier: … you’re fucking kidding.
> 
> Geralt: we don’t talk about it.
> 
> Jaskier: everyone else fucking is!


	17. Chapter 17

Ciri sat calmly, her fingers running lightly along the edge of the paper she was reading, and ignored the silence that hovered painfully over the room. The news was very rarely good, kingdoms ran on emergencies and other delicate issues. If it wasn’t a flood then it was a drought, if it wasn’t the threat of war then it was the threat of stalled trade talks.

But this is what it took to run a nation. A nation that was still paying a heavy price for the war that had been waged across its lands for the last generation. A war started by her father in his arrogance, and finally ended with her sword and his head on a pike.

She was not the whimpering, cowed woman that the nickname ‘childlike empress’ seemed to imply. She had just, unfortunately, always tended toward the slight side when it came to her build. Though being seen with her witcher family did nothing to stop that comparison from taking root.

Ciri didn’t mind. It let people underestimate her. And weak opponents were much more agreeable than stronger ones.

“Your majesty,” Lord Kevak said, interrupting her third time reading through the report.

The man quivered whenever he thought she was going to pull a knife. And, apparently, she appeared to be prepared to draw knives fairly constantly when he was in the room. He had developed a twitch under his right eye in the last month.

“Is the report true,” she demanded.

The room stayed silent a moment longer, and then Lord Kevak nodded.

She knew that the power vacuum left by Nilfgaard in the south would cause issues. But there was no way to advance into the lands and take control of them, as well as control what was left of the north. Too much, too soon, and there wouldn’t have been a kingdom at all after a few years. 

But now someone had taken power in the south. Had rallied what was left of the shattered lands, and was scraping together a single, unified country. Again.

For now they weren’t a threat. The border to the south, heavily patrolled, had reported no rise in violence. The trade caravans still continued without more issues than normal. 

The roving bands of thieves had actually begun to dissipate, now that there was honest work and places for them to return to. 

It honestly looked good. If it wasn’t for the fact that, once again, there were rumors they were worshiping the same insane ideals of the former Nilfgaard. And were sending lords of the south to discuss uniting the two countries through marriage.

She despised Nilfgaard for those beliefs, and their worship of her. And the emperor, her own father, for thinking that incest and inbreeding was an acceptable way to rule.

“I want them watched carefully,” Ciri snapped, leaning back in her chair.

And she wanted it known that she would consider no suit from this southern king that more than likely shared blood with her. But she would have to wrangle those words more politely, when her hands didn’t itch to pick up a sword and go storming south.

The kingdom was recovered enough that they could creep the boundaries a little more. Take a little more land, and a little more power. But she knew that was more her grandmother talking than herself. As much as she loved her grandmother, she could not let herself become that woman. Could not let fear rule her to the point of committing genocide. 

“Yes, your majesty,” Lord Kevak bowed, and returned to his seat.

The sun still shone through the windows, higher in the sky that she would like, but not all battles could be won with a sword. Through the many trade agreements they were weaving with Redania, and how much support they needed after the cruelties that Nilfgaard had forced upon them, it was doubtless that they would be absorbed into the kingdom within the next few years.

She had already heard the rumors that that’s why she was allowing Geralt to court Jaskier so publicly, though Jaskier no longer held any true titles or courtly standing in Redania. She had waved the rumors off, marrying off her father for a simple bit of land was laughable at best, but it only worked in her favor.

Unfortunately she doubted that her uncle Eskel had found anything as of yet. 

So she was content to let the rumors circulate, and watch the Redanian members of the court turn the conversation away without comment. They would be part of her kingdom soon enough, though she doubted much would change for them outside of a new face on their currency.

She listened as the officials began to discuss a trade agreement, letting them argue and snap about the details. Tiny steps needed to keep the entire kingdom turning.

* * *

Eskel stared down at the man chained to the chair before him, eyeing the bruises and the trickle of blood from his split lip.

It wasn’t a bad beating. He had certainly received worse in training as a child, but it was violence done to a man unaccustomed to violence. And a man like that always suffered when the pain was on the surface, where it couldn’t hide.

Let him feel the bruises and the blood dripping down his face. Let it sink in that he had crossed a line, and now he was to pay the bargained upon price. One does not help commit treason and murder in Cirilla’s grand court without expecting Eskel to come pounding on their door.

“How much were you paid,” Eskel asked, curiously.

How much was the cost of the life of the empress? How much had it taken to buy a man’s soul, to give him the ability to pick up a tiny flask of poison and thread it into those bites of food? How had Eskel missed that this man’s price was so low that others could find it before Eskel knew himself?

The man whimpered, but shook his head.

Clearly the gold was more than Eskel had considered, if it had bought him off well enough to resist a witcher’s blunted fury for more than a few moments. Either that, or he was going soft.

He traced a finger down the side of the man’s face, his fingers gentle. The skin pulled a little here and there, the man was getting on in years, but it wasn’t the papery thin material that would be found cocooning the aged.

No, there would be a little give if he needed to start carving. Enough resistance that the pulling of the knife would be felt. Nerves would scream from pressure as well as the splitting pain. Because Eskel knew just how horrific a dull blade could be compared to a sharp one.

And he didn’t want to waste a sharp blade on this man.

The man whimpered and quivered, but just shook his head, biting his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut.

Eskel shrugged and pulled out a knife, stabbing it into the man’s leg right above his kneecap and wrenching it sideways. He could feel the ligaments tearing against the steel of the blade, and the man howled.

The injury was painful and unforgiving, he would certainly never walk steadily again, but it wasn’t life threatening. No, the man didn’t get to escape into death until he had given Eskel his answers.

“Who paid you to put the poison in the empress’ food,” Eskel asked again, glaring down at the little man.

Such a tiny thing, really. A man, grown and in his prime to be sure, but sitting there, _chained_ there, he looked like a foolish child. He had lunged and bit and snapped, and Eskel had caught him. Had a sting of beautiful little pieces of evidence that showed that it was him who had put the poison in Lady Sparrowese’s food. It was he that had caused her blood to thicken, and for her to die in wretched agony, foam at her mouth.

And he had intended that fate for Ciri. Darling little Ciri who hated mornings, and carried sixteen knives on her, and had enough metal threaded through her corsets to be proper armor. Who now had to check every morsel before she dared take a bite, because someone had already succeeded where they should have never been able.

But the man just shook his head, trying to curl inward in painful agony.

“Can’t, they’ll kill-”

“And you think I won’t,” Eskel snarled, slamming his foot down on the man’s left foot and kicking the chair sideways.

The man and the chair fell to the side, but the leg, trapped and bleeding, tore and ripped itself apart. Eskel glared down at the man as he screamed in agony, panting and trying to catch his breath, and waited for him to realize that it didn’t matter who had threatened him, Eskel was who he should be afraid of.

And who he should obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ciri glares at paperwork*
> 
> *Ciri continues to do boring negotiations and paperwork to keep the country running smoothly*
> 
> Eskel: fuck paperwork, that's boring!
> 
> *Eskel pulls out large bag of knives*
> 
> *Eskel starts putting knives in bad man*
> 
> *elsewhere in the castle*
> 
> Jakier: I sense a great disturbance in the Force, as if a knife has cried out and yet not found the right person to be stabbed...
> 
> Jaskier: wait, fuck, no! I don't want to be stabbed again!


	18. Chapter 18

“Melitele’s tits, Eskel,” Lambert swore, covering his nose. “It smells like a fucking charnel house in here.”

Eskel just hummed in agreement, carefully cleaning the knives and accessories on the table before packing them neatly away. He had been taught, very forcibly, to always care for his weapons. You never knew when you were going to need them.

“And how the fuck did you manage to get blood on the fucking ceiling,” Lambert asked.

Eskel looked up in surprise and noticed that his brother was right. A dark smear, oxidizing to a muddy brown, stood out against the other stains smeared across the stone. It would be useless to ask someone to clean them, and it’s not like no one knew what this room was in the first place.

The stains would never be able to be removed from these stones.

“You’re back early, I didn’t expect you until next week,” Eskel said, neatly tucking away the thin steel pins into their case.

“The weather was turning, thought it best to get in early,” Lambert said, looking around the room with a sneer. “Coen won’t be making it up, something is grabbing kids down south so he went to skewer the bugger.”

“Surprised you didn’t join him.”

Eskel zipped up the bag, ignoring the blood splattered sheet that was draped over the table. Someone else would come to dispose of the sheet later, after they were done doing a halfhearted job of scrubbing at the floors. He knew the stains would never come out, but the remains needed to at least be cleaned away lest they attract vermin.

“Heard from some drunk out in the city that Geralt was fucking that bard of his again,” Lambert shrugged. “Didn’t that fucker die? Geralt was pissing salt and vinegar half the war like he did.”

“Tortured, not dead,” Eskel corrected. “Though our dear brother hasn’t quite come to realize how hard headed he is.”

“Dear brother,” Lambert snorted, following Eskel out of the room and into the dark hallway. “You’re beginning to sound more like those foppish bastards everyday.”

There were seventeen rooms like this, all unknown except to specifically trusted people. Deep underground, dark and dank, and kept that way on purpose. If a person disappeared down into one of these rooms, they had already done so much that there could never be forgiveness. 

“Words are as good as knives at court,” Eskel reminded him.

“Fuck that shit, let me keep my sword and monsters. You silk dressed fuckers are shit bastards beyond me.”

Eskel smiled at that. And it was true. He was a witcher of the court now, accustomed to hunting human monsters to protect the realm. Lambert was happy with his swords and the wilderness and the mindless beasts that they had ever protected others from.

It was awkward at times, but he had missed his brother. It would be good to get drunk with him and just laugh about old times and share war stories, even if their wars were so much different now.

“But Geralt is fucking him, right,” Lambert asked as they walked carefully through the dark tunnels.

“I don’t care to know what our brother does with his enfianced in their spare time, merely that they are happy together.”

“Happy,” Lambert snorted. “Geralt’s had a shit of bugs up his ass, but happy sure as fuck isn’t one.”

And that Eskel agreed with. Geralt had been happy enough through training, as happy as any of them had been, but the instant his hair went white and his eyes went gold all true happiness had been washed from him. From all of them, really, but they had all learned to cope with it a little better than their bitter brother. 

On the outside, at least. He very much doubted than any witcher had ever been happy again after being delivered to their training schools.

“Yennefer still expects her money,” Eskel said, trying to draw the conversation away from Geralt.

As much as he knew Lambert’s loyalty, the man couldn’t lie his way through a sodden sack. He would give up the game at first glance, and never even realize it. Better to keep him in the dark and temper his temper with a few drinks after.

Lambert was always more forgiving a few drinks in.

“That cunt sorceress,” Lambert growled under his breath.

“I think she said she’d be willing to go in double or nothing,” Eskel suggested.

An unconscious Lambert was the easiest to control. And he could almost feel his brother’s mood brighten at that. The man did love his fancy liquor, no matter how he cursed the court life that had created it.

He would have to make a note for the servants to avoid Yenn’s rooms over the next day or so, she was quite the unhappy handful when hungover.

* * *

Yennefer was not surprised when Eskel knocked on her door. She had received a note that he wished to talk, privately, an hour earlier from another one of his bland faced minions, and she knew he would find his way to her rooms soon enough. He trusted it to be safer to speak here more than anywhere else in the palace.

For all his careful planning and skill, he offices weren’t secure enough for some of the requests he made. And even Eskel knew that he could fall into the bad graces of Ciri if she truly discovered what he did from time to time.

“You look exhausted,” she commented, offering him a mug of warm spiced wine.

Only a single mug because she knew he didn’t partake in something this weak. Although she half suspected he also didn’t trust something he hadn’t brewed and poured himself. Ciri had learned some of her paranoia somewhere, after all. Though, clearly it wasn’t all ill deserved given that someone clearly was out to kill her daughter.

“Lambert’s back early,” Eskel sighed, not even glancing at the second chair as she sank into hers.

“Did he bring money,” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. It really was such a delight to out drink him, he would spend the rest of his time in the palace bitching until he left for the Path again.

“Most likely. I’ve decided to keep him in the dark,” Eskel sighed.

Yenn nodded. Lambert had a tendency to be mouthy with prostitutes. No one cared when a witcher told the secrets of how to slay monsters, but they did if he started to whisper sweet nothings of courtly secrets. So far the only true secret he knew was the ingredient ratio of the palace spiced wine, and no one was truly desperate to get it off him. 

“And I need to you to look into something for me,” Eskel said, handing her a slip of paper. “He’s a rather well known apothecary in town. I was able to track the poison back to his shop, and it would be rather better if you went instead.”

“You know, if you stopped making black bags appear over people’s heads before you made them disappear everywhere you went, you would be able to investigate things as well,” Yenn pointed out, looking at the paper. “I know him, he’s a touch over priced but he can source some of the more rare ingredients that most shops in the city can’t.”

“So it won’t be suspicious if you walk in asking a few questions,” Eskel pointed out.

“No, but I still don’t know, exactly, what poison it was that was used. Anything that coagulated the blood wouldn’t be suspicious, there are a few bleeders at court that use such medicines, and foaming at the mouth is so common that she could have been bitten by a mad cat and suffered the same fate.”

“Simply get me the list of names. I know who would have used things for medicine, and who wouldn’t. Anything else is at your discretion.”

“Meaning you and your spies have not a clue, and don’t want to admit it,” Yenn rolled her eyes. “I’ll go in the morning, that’s when I’m usually at the shops. It’ll be easy enough to get you all your answers then.”

“Thank you, Yenn,” Eskel bowed, and Yenn just waved her hand and sipped her wine.

Ciri was her daughter. She would burn the world to keep her safe. Had helped burn an army to do so. Poking around in an apothecary shop was easy enough. And a touch of blackmail material to take down a price or two would be good as well. The man really did charge far too much for some of his Zerrikanian ingredients.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: why are there stains on your ceiling?
> 
> *Eskel shrugs*
> 
> Eskel: I get very involved with my work.
> 
> *Lambert and Geralt stare at the ceiling in horror*
> 
> Yenn: and everyone accuses _me_ of being the scary one!


	19. Chapter 19

Jaskier smiled, bowing politely as he entered the room, his arm on Geralt’s. Geralt nodded, but, as father of the empress, and an infamous witcher, his courtly manners were not expected to be up to snuff. The same, thankfully, could not be said about him.

And how Jaskier had missed some of the dance. He had so many fond memories of dancing his way through court, his tongue and his wits so much better than those around him. His songs had been cleavers in the battle, fearsome and brutal. He had not been the famous bard Jaskier without cause.

And it was not only of Geralt that he had sung. Though he did enjoy the more rustic nature of his little ballads on Geralt’s behalf. It was such a shame that Geralt had loathed his singing, it would have been fun to invite him to witness bardic competitions, where he had so steadily, and so easily, won with his tales. 

But Geralt hated his singing, and had grown tired of him decades ago. Maybe part of it was the man had never really had a long lasting friend, and part of it was that he had no taste. But whatever it was, he almost regretted that he couldn’t make him sit and suffer through a few of his songs now.

It would have been sweet revenge for some of the insults that had been snapped in his direction over the years.

They were settled into two chairs, near enough to Ciri to clearly signal their hierarchy without doubt to those around them, far enough that Jaskier could gossip without fear that others would censor their words so as to not offend the empress. Seating was important. And, though it was a mildly informal dinner, a smaller room and only some chosen members of the court, it was a good way to introduce Jaskier and let the gossip run rampant from there.

Not that there wasn’t already gossip, Jaskier had already arranged for that, but giving the little fish a fresh nibble could never go wrong. And it would be interesting to see how far his bait was getting him, and what fresh rumors had flowed forth. Already the update to Geralt’s wardrobe, a depressing black as always but with a few lovely little bits of detail here and there, would cause a few comments.

Most likely of the most vulgar variety, of how he had tamed the savage beast. And he would disdain all that thought in such a manner, but it couldn’t be avoided. He doubted many thought much more of himself, now that he had supposedly lowered himself to officially warming Geralt’s bed. Not that such rumors were unknown to him, there had certainly been a lot of them during his bardic career. Many couldn’t see what other reason an irate witcher would have kept him around at all in the first place.

Those same eyes didn’t seem to realize that it was Jaskier who kept himself around, and merely had the luck of chance to be able to follow the white wolf in the first place.

The scene was set, the players here, and the first course was served. An elegant little antipasto of winter vegetables and mushrooms. Simply sublime, the colors of the vegetables flared out across the plate like a setting sun. His compliments to the cooks, he had tasted wonders from them before, but this was a delightful marvel.

He noticed that Ciri, indeed, was making clever work of her little stage play, and had not taken a single bite. Geralt, he cringed to see, had simply devoured the entire plate without taking time to pause and enjoy the delicate flavors. He was certain, now, that there would be a much heartier spread on the tables in their rooms when they returned. There was no way a tasty, but limited, court dinner would keep up with his appetite.

“The tale of your romance is legendary,” the lady to his right said, joining him into the conversation.

Jaskier didn’t fail to notice that she kept her eyes to the right side of his face, and ignored Geralt completely. No wonder Geralt found it rough to stay even a few days amongst these people, with cruelties like this visited upon him with every meal. To be ignored and only allowed at the table because the empress was there to have heads if worse behavior was shown must be painful, no matter how stoic the target.

“But you must tell, wherever have you been these last few years, leaving your poor betrothed pining without you.”

Jaskier kicked Geralt under the table before he could snort, but he didn’t fail to notice that the other man was intently listening while he carefully positioned his fork on the plate. Clearly he had never learned that half the reason food was here at all was to occupy hands so as to not look obvious.

“Unfortunately I had to see to my estates in Lettenhove after the war ended. My family did not survive, and there was quite amount of damaged done as Nilfgaard washed across the lands,” Jaskier paused, trying to look pained at the memory.

And it was painful, but it was a distant ache. His mother had died long before the war, and his father had all but officially disowned him the instant he took to traveling as a troubadour. He had had several siblings, but two sisters had long since died in childbirth while the others escaped to families elsewhere, and his brother had fallen in battle. The family had ended, the name would fade with him, the lands had been razed. It was an old ache. One he had mourned and put behind him when he was eighteen. The last time he had ever, truly, seen any of them.

There was no rebuilding of Lettenhove. A small fishing village remained, carved into the very rock itself, and it was happy to remain that way. Too small to be noticed, too small to be burned with those black flames ever again.

He was sure his name was a curse there, for what he had brought down upon them. And he deserved it.

“Oh dear,” she simpered. “How terrible. There was quite so much of that after the war. I am ever so grateful our dear Empress has been so strong for the country.

“But you must tell me, how is Redania doing? They did suffer so, and they are struggling with their rebuilding. Oxenfurt will never be the same.”

A servant whisked their plates away, replacing them with a solid spiced pumpkin soup. He glanced over at Geralt and nearly grinned to watch him glaring at the tiny spoon he was using to delicately, and hurriedly, devour the bowlful. He would either have to work on Geralt’s table manners a bit more and explain to him why the food was there in the first place, because it was not truly to satisfy the appetite, or arrange to have him fed beforehand. Because, as is, he was rudely insinuating that he didn’t want to be here.

Even if, truly, he knew that Geralt didn’t want to be here. He needed to play nice. His ears were sharper than his own, and he needed the damn wolf to listen in on conversations he couldn’t hear.

“There is quite the struggle still,” Jaskier admitted, thinking of his own cold, hungry nights. “But the country shall rally and persevere, I am sure. And dear Oxenfurt shall blossom and be ever beautiful as she was in the past.”

“You taught there, didn’t you,” she asked. “So many of the professors and students fled and have found shelter here, it has been amazing. I even hear that the dear Empress may have a new university founded.”

Ah. And there it was. He was now a sign that Oxenfurt had fallen, and would be rebuilt in a new empire. And, without Oxenfurt, Redania would whither and fade, and be absorbed into the kingdom. Expanding lands eating those who did not care to fight it. He had wondered how the court would take Geralt’s intentions, and now he saw; he was a sign that Redania would be Ciri’s in a short time.

And, given his academic history, he had no doubt that there were people already trying to bribe hapless others to obtain spots at the future university for their children. He would have a laugh about this later, in private. Oxenfurt was hurting, that was true, but if there was anything the city was it was fluid and stubborn. It would work around the problems and find a way to flow anew. Nothing would ever be able to truly replace that grand city.

“Yes, I did, for a few terms. I would love to return to the academic life, if conditions allow,” Jaskier smiled. 

Nothing could replace Oxenfurt, but a good bit of competition was healthy. Let Ciri be cornered into building a new university. The world could only prosper for it. As for Redania, well, he was nothing more than a fisherman now, and would be again once this was all over. Let the country worry after itself. 

“Oh, that would be brilliant. We have a poet in court that I heard you enjoyed. He does have such a wonderful way with words, I should most like to introduce you.”

“I would love that, I have missed being able to discuss prose these past few years.”

“Then it is a set date. I shall try to arrange it before the feast day is upon us,” the lady smiled, and Jaskier smiled back.

Little schools had brought interesting news to the larger fish. And he was about to be willingly swallowed whole. Hopefully this southern lords, whose distinct accent was lacking in this room, would be a fan of poetry.

He kicked Geralt in the leg again as the man was about to pick up the steak on his plate with a fork and eat it without cutting it. Table manners first, and a reminder to have him fed before public meals as well. He ignored Geralt’s glare and neatly sliced this slivers of the steak to taste. One rarely finished a plate at a meal like this, conversation was the true food here.

And he was happily sated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier kicks Geralt under the table. Again.*
> 
> *Geralt glares at his empty plate, and then glares at Jaskier*
> 
> Jaskier: we'll eat more later, I promise!
> 
> Geralt: I don't want this fancy shit, I want a pinecone!
> 
> *Jaskier stares at Geralt*
> 
> *Jaskier tries to reach over and kick him in the head for good measure*
> 
> *Geralt sulks and longs for a tasty pinecone*


	20. Chapter 20

Yennefer slipped into the shop, wrapped in a thick cloak and warm furs, and hummed in appreciation at how warm it was inside. She loved a well cared for, well stocked, and well warmed apothecary in the winter. Much better than suffering failed experiments because of a mislabeled bottle with illegible handwriting.

The nodded politely at the young woman behind the counter, and decided to browse a while first. She didn’t bother hiding who she was, everyone in the business would know she was a sorceress immediately in the first place, and it wouldn’t take two moments after that to realize she was the resident sorceress of the court.

Which, to most shopkeepers, meant she had good coin to spend and oddities to spend it on. She pretended to ignore the girl as she slipped out the side door, no doubt to inform the owner that Yennefer was in the shop. 

He would want to see to her purchases himself. And, no doubt, try to swindle her into something she absolutely didn’t need and was absolutely over priced.

But such was the way of things, and it was him she wanted to speak to in the first place. She very much doubted that there were many under the table dealings done in the shop without his fingers getting sloppy in those pies. He had a reputation for being greedy and nosy, something she knew he almost completely took pleasure in from first hand experience.

Though she had never attempted to buy poisons off of him before. She was smart enough to grow and make her own without needing to leave a trail around to be caught. But, hopefully, this little piece of the trail would help uncover who they were looking for, and she would take great delight in making sure this shop was never used as such a source again.

Eskel had never told her not to have her fun, and she did so enjoy reminding those who needed it just how powerful she truly was.

She browsed the wares thoughtfully, intrigued at how his supply was beautifully managing to not only be maintained, but growing. He could even rival several of her preferred suppliers, if it wasn’t for the fact that she preferred doing business with those other suppliers rather than here. High prices for valuable merchandise was acceptable, but some of these were ridiculous. Twenty gold coins for a single griffon feather? Simply ridiculous, even if most other people couldn’t just win a few in a card game off a witcher.

Witchers, from her experience, were always full to the brim with valuable ingredients and were in need of so many entertaining ways to part with them. She wondered what else Lambert had returned with, outside of a wish to empty his coin purse into her own.

“Ah, Lady Yennefer,” a portly man stepped from the little door that led to the back of the shop. “What an honor it is to have your patronage. Gustaw Cala, at your service.”

“The honor is all mine, you have quite the most wonderful stock,” Yennefer smiled neatly. “I don’t believe I’ve even seen Seeds of Paradise outside of one shop in Novingrad.”

“Yes, it is quite the delicate spice,” the man grinned, his eyes greedy. “But amazingly potent when used correctly.”

Yennefer kept smiling, glad that more than a century of training kept her from cringing. The only thing Seeds of Paradise were capable of making potent was a bottle of wine, no matter any mans thoughts on the matter. But men, she had long since found, often thought with their dicks when allowed to ruminate on things they knew not.

Especially, it seemed, when it came to rare cooking spices.

“Yes, I do believe it is,” let the fools who believed that buy and imbibe. “But, I’m afraid I need to ask, are there any other rooms to the shop? There are a few certain ingredients I need, and I don’t see them here. And I certainly cannot believe that you do not have them.”

The fool was easy to bait, and she could almost see him fantasizing about counting her coins after he had left. She knew there was a backroom, there was always a backroom. Apothecaries tended to mix their own medicinal formulas, not everyone was gifted in the art, and certain ingredients could be dangerous in larger doses. It was all fine to display the rare herbs that could strongly season a meal, but a touch too much of a certain root could have the ignorant dead within a week.

But one didn’t simply demand to see the backroom. That was a quick way to find your ingredients sadly out of stock, and she would rather not like to see that happen. For, while Cala’s prices were outrageous, he did have an amazing amount of things she had not seen in quite some time.

If they were real, that is. It was so easy to try to pass falsehoods for truth in this business. It was such a shame she would have to pass a few rumors around and put him out of business after they had nabbed their little killer. She couldn’t risk having an untrustworthy apothecary so close to the palace.

“Of course,” Cala grinned, leading her toward the little door. “We do try to keep the more dangerous ingredients away from the public. I wouldn’t want anyone to harm themselves after all.”

“Of course not,” Yenn agreed.

The lying bastard. How many other deaths in this city came from his greedy fingers?

The backroom was as impressive, if not more deadly, than the front room. She could have half the court brought to their knees, and the other half sunk in their graves, with what lined the shelves. There were no prices here, haggling would rule the day, but it was not pleasant to think of why so many jars as so little left within.

Yew tonics, tears of of the tiny blue fury, legs of the angered duck dog. It was amazing, and, though a few had special healing properties, most were simply bottles of death waiting to be spilled. She doubted even Eskel would have known what half of these were, collected from the far corners of the world as they were. Even she didn’t know a handful, and wondered what sorts of agonizing deaths they could cause.

She would have to have her run of the store before she had him beaten out of business. Eskel, for all his eloquence, still did enjoy to work with his hands.

But there were a few glaring gaps in his collection, including the one she had specifically come here for today.

“Quite impressive,” Yenn said. “I could use some of the blue fury’s tears, I know a rather afflicted individual who would benefit from the medicine. But I’m in specific need of naja, and I don’t see it here. Are you out of stock? I do know the medicine is necessary amongst certain families.”

Cala chuckled nervously. The murderer should have simply broken in and stolen it rather than purchase it, Cala was greedy but he was poor at keeping secrets. He had already given the game away. 

“And, perhaps, a list of others who take the medicine? My friend is here to court, and would not risk mingling with families that also have the blood affliction. For the good of the children, you understand.”

“Well, I couldn’t do that,” Cala tried to explain, wringing his hands. “No good merchant would give up their list of customers. Privacy and all.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Yenn said, her mask falling as she glared at the shaking man. “My friend is quite dear, and I would hate for there to be any issues. And I would never be able to break my word to them.”

Cala swallowed, sweat beading along his temple. Yenn was curious how a man so easily cowed could stay in business as a poisoner. Surely he would have enough of a backbone to stand up to a few angry words.

Unless he was the source of the plot. But that would be ridiculous. He had nothing to gain from collapsing the government. His thriving shop would fall if the court dissolved, and no one would be able to afford his prices in the economic chaos. No, fat greedy men like him liked stability. Stability meant they could continue with their greedy lives in peace.

“Where is the naja, Cala,” Yenn asked again. “And I need a full list of names. You have the records.”

Cala nodded, ducking behind a desk and unlocking a drawer. The jar of naja was nearly empty, that would explain his reluctance. Even with the royal disease, so prevalent amongst those at court, that jar should never be so empty. People’s lives depended on the stock being available. He had gotten too greedy, and now was caught.

How many doses did the murderer have left?

Cala pulled out a book and Yenn took it from him without a thought, silencing his protests with a pointed look. It wasn’t only the naja purchases that were suspect now. Half the court could be running around and spiking drinks if they had the spines to do so, they certainly had the stock.

Eskel would have a field day classifying and carting off the evidence. Or simply disappearing it, as was his way of late. It would be better if no one knew this was here in the first place, that was for certain.

“I’ll return in three days for the naja,” Yenn told him. “I expect there will be no issues?”

“N-no. There will be plenty for you then,” Cala smiled wanly.

There would be no three days. She doubted there would be three hours. This shop was doomed to fade away before the lunch bells rang. And she would have to look into the other shops, and have them watched to make sure they did not absorb the clientele.

“I shall see you then,” Yenn said, turning to leave.

“And Cala,” Yenn turned at the doorway. “Do not disappoint me.”

Cala shook his head, his face pale and his hands shaking. 

Yenn didn’t feel sorry for him. He should be grateful. Anyone else would have left him a day to suffer in wonder of what was coming. She was being merciful and making sure the headman’s axe was soon to swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I usually put funny little omake at the end of the chapter, but I thought I should address a serious issue here instead: naja.
> 
> I grabbed the name from wikipedia, apparently it's part of the scientific name of cobras. I could be wrong, I just glanced at the article while wondering what new and exciting ways governments were sorting my name with my search history now.
> 
> If you are a hemophiliac: DO NOT INJECT YOURSELF WITH COBRA VENOM! It will kill you.
> 
> If you are not a hemophiliac: DO NOT INJECT YOURSELF WITH COBRA VENOM. It will kill you.
> 
> As for the animals of Australia also mentioned; well, that should be obvious. DO NOT FUCK AROUND WITH THE ANIMALS IN AUSTRALIA. They will kill you.
> 
> Thank you, this has been a notice from the 'We need to state the blindingly obvious because stupid people might actual do it' Association. Please, use your heads, the association really doesn't want to exist anymore.


	21. Chapter 21

_Such a beautiful lute. The detail work is so intricate. It would be a shame to part you from your instrument._

_Your voice is so beautiful when you scream. I can almost hear the echoes of your lovely music in your voice. Please, sweet bard, sing again. Sing with your lute in your hands._

_It will only get worse if you don’t surrender. Surrender to the pain, and tell me the little secrets you’ve been keeping. We know you traveled with the White Wolf. Know you kept his bed warm year after year. Where is he now? That’s all we need to know._

_He hasn’t come yet, my friend. Maybe you haven’t called loud enough. Maybe you need to remind him every time you look him in the face. Such a shame to mar such beauty, but for a worthy cause, I assure you. So sing louder, little bard. Sing louder so your wolf can hear._

__

Jaskier groaned, rolling over and flinching away from the sunlight. His bones ached and the old scars that threaded across his skin burned in remembered agony. It had hurt when they had splintered his lute, had been so hard to watch them destroy his beautiful instrument.

More painful, almost, than when they had taken those splinters and jammed them under his fingernails, and taken the time to find the most painful places to pierce into his skin. But it had hurt worse, so much worse, when he had finally been able to remove those splinters, after the army had freed himself and the others held captive.

He had burned them all, watched the flames eat them, and swore to never hold another instrument again. They had taken the purity of the music from him, and for that he could never forgive his captors. The men long dead, their torture still living on, still trapping him in his nightmares when he was almost sure he had forgotten.

But he would never forget a single detail. And now, in a comfortable bed, his skin burning and sweat beading on his brow, he wished they had just ended him. They had taken his pleasure and left him nothing but pain.

A long, agonizing life of knowing his family was dead, his ancestral home was gone, everyone he had cared for had left him, and he had still managed to survive. But at least now he had a duty beyond survival. 

Save Ciri. That’s what mattered. Protect the empire, save the empress. The rest could go fuck itself until that was done.

A finger carefully tapped on his shoulder, and Jaskier looked up blearily. He had forgotten that he and Geralt had shared a room that night, though, at least, Geralt had done him the kindness of giving him the bed while he had taken the floor by the fireplace. 

Let Geralt’s bones ache on the stone floor, he was quite happy to ache captured in a down cloud.

He blinked again and realized Geralt was holding a steaming mug of what smelled like tea.

He didn’t even know that Geralt knew what tea was, let alone how to acquire it.

“You were screaming in your sleep,” Geralt said, helping him to sit up.

Jaskier nodded, taking the tea and sipping at it carefully. It was hot, sweet, and very herbal. But it felt like magic going down his throat, and he didn’t care if he spilled in bed. 

“Nightmares,” Jaskier said with a shrug. “Happens sometimes.”

Hadn’t happened in a while, he had hoped they were nearly gone. But being back in the old game must have shaken something loose in his head, and the old ghosts had returned once more. He hoped he hadn’t woken Geralt, or hurt him with his screaming. He knew how much Geralt loathed the sound of his voice, the volume would have made it even worse.

Geralt looked away guiltily, and slunk out of the room, carefully closing the door behind himself. Jaskier accept the peace as a gift, and continued to sip on the tea as he lounged in bed and wondered how to arrange his schedule for the day.

The benefits of being as high rank as he was, technically, were that it was an honor to have him around. So, rather than skipping to the beck and call of anyone else, except for Ciri of course, they were all, technically, at his. So if he was late it was fashionable. If he didn’t attend, it wasn’t worth attending.

Part of the benefits of being an old war veteran were also that he could make excuses and people cooed in sympathy rather than rolling their eyes behind his back. No one would comment on his late rising in this chill. It was almost expected of him.

But he did need to make his way through several of the ranking social circles, and he wanted to at least converse with several of the southern lords that were hanging around and trying to make themselves seem appealing. If nothing else, he needed to hear their voices most of all. It wouldn’t do to ignore the mission.

He only had a week until the feast, after all. And he wanted to slip out of everyone’s hair shortly after that. Let Yenn devise some witty excuse for his absence, he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to be here anymore.

Not when it made nightmares ring through his head, and the memory of blood wet his hands.

The door opened again and Jaskier watched in amazement as Geralt brought in a tray of fruit and pastries. Had Yenn dropped by and chewed him out when he had been asleep? This was a drastic change of temperament compared to the man of a few days ago who growled and threw food on the floor.

“I’m almost tempted to reach for silver,” Jaskier told him, eyeing the food suspiciously.

“I know what nightmares are like,” Geralt said in lieu of a proper explanation.

Yes, he had no doubt the man did. He had more than a century on him. He must have terrors haunting in his mind that put his own nightmares to shame. How many scars coated Geralt’s mind that his body had long since healed?

But that was neither here nor there. He couldn’t help the other man any more than he could help himself with things like this. Geralt was just lucky enough to outlive his demons, Jaskier would just be happy if they didn’t haunt him until the day he slipped below the waves into his own watery grave.

“Take a seat,” Jaskier said, motioning toward the foot of the bed.

They had a lot to discuss. After the appalling behavior last night, they needed to have words. They couldn’t keep acting as they did, it was too easy to spot as fake. Geralt stiff as a bored and acting like a barely trained animal at the dinner table, and Jaskier having to kick him under said table.

Not a single person would have been unable to notice that Geralt had not wanted to be there, or anything to do with him. It would draw a little sympathy, but it made him look like an aged gold digger. That would get him nothing but scorn in court.

He could twist it a little, Geralt was known for being gruff, but there was so much even his words could do. Some of the responsibility needed to rest of Geralt’s shoulders. He needed the man to act a little soft around him. To take a little time. 

To be less angry.

And he knew Geralt wouldn’t catch a hint, so he needed to be blunt. Like a sword. A very sharp, clear sword. Geralt, at least, understood swords.

Geralt refused to sit on the bed, but that wasn’t Jaskier’s concern. Let the man stand if he was more comfortable.

“We can’t have another repeat of last night,” Jaskier said, continuing to sip at his tea. “You need to at least look like you’re comfortable with my company, and that you want me around. Offer to pull out my chair for me, rest your hand on mine at the table. 

“And, for Melitele’s sake, try to look less angry. I know that’s hard for you, but try. I don’t need you to crack jokes or whisper sweet nothings in my ear. I don’t need you to bed me, or even woo me. But we need to put on a believable front. For Ciri’s sake.”

Geralt went stiff, and Jaskier sighed, placing the mug down on the side table and slipping out of bed. Geralt only learned through example, it seemed. So example it was. Again.

Hopefully he was a fast learner, because Jaskier wanted to be out in company today, although Geralt would be perfectly free to excuse himself. No one would believe Geralt listening to poetry and participating in idle gossip.

He took Geralt’s hand in his, warm and callused, and raised another to his face. Gently he caressed his cheek, and leaned in for a brief kiss. Geralt’s lips were more yielding this time, and Jaskier pulled back with a smile.

“All right, now you try.”

Geralt turned to frigid stone, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Repeat what I did. It looks soft and loving. And believable.”

Geralt nodded, and, though a little wooden, repeated the performance.

Jaskier had to give him points for trying. And the unsure stiffness could be passed off as a brutish witcher not knowing how to deal with romance. Given some of the other rumors flying around court, it wouldn’t be that outlandish. 

“You need to practice things like that, okay. I’ll be busy today, but we’ll be dining with others again this evening. So, before you go off to swing your sword around and glare at others, try to at least imagine being a little soft in public.”

Geralt grit his teeth, and Jaskier could swear that he almost heart a growl, but he ignored it. Let him have his little spat, he had the whole day to work it out of his system. As long as he behaved appropriately tonight.

“I’ll have a full dinner delivered to the rooms for after we return from dinner, so you needn’t devour everything in sight like a starved animal. And remember your table manners. Knives to cut things into mouthfuls, not used to shovel food into your mouth.”

“Anything else, mother,” Geralt snarled.

“Yes, out of the room, I need to change. I need to make my rounds through the salons and listen for voices and gossip. I won’t be getting my job done lying in bed like a dying man.”

Geralt stormed from the room and Jaskier laughed. He truly was an insolent little puppy at times. A few jokes passed around at Geralt’s expense would do him no harm. And, hopefully, it would soften his image a tad.

Though he doubted it. But anything was better than rumors of incest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier is grouchy morning person*
> 
> *Geralt attempts to be nice*
> 
> *Jaskier fucks with Geralt's head and kicks him out of the room*
> 
> *Geralt is grouchy, and then looks down*
> 
> Geralt: ... fuck.
> 
> Eskel: and this is why you don't get to be spymaster. Spymasters know who they wanna fuck.


	22. Chapter 22

Eskel kept the cloak close around his face, hiding his face in the shadows it left, and watched Yenn leave the apothecary. She paused for a moment, noticing his still form, and gave a curt nod before continuing on her way.

That was all the sign he needed before he gave a short whistle and started toward the building. He kept a close watch on the apothecaries, one could never be too cautious when some of the more rare ingredients came into play, but most kept themselves fairly clean. A false love potion or two, one brewed some rather expert abortion potions, a few dabbled in a standard fare of rather intense laxatives, but normally nothing very sinister. 

Most were tended to by healers, who knew their craft. And, Eskel was quick to note, were a boon to the city. A touch expensive, but the economy thrived well enough to afford it. Lambert had already fetched a rather good price for some of his wares as well at one near the river.

But this one had been suspicious for a while. A few too many jealous spouses passed through their doors. And a few too many shipments he hadn’t been able to verify. But Yenn’s nod was enough to tell him that he needed to be there, and the apothecary needed to disappear.

Men fanned out around the building, quickly nailing boards over the windows and doors. There would be no escape for those inside. No disappearing into the day only to reappear with a streak of vengeance later.

No, when Eskel cut the head off a beast, it stayed dead. Just like he had been taught.

“I want everything catalog and taken back with us,” Eskel said as he went through the front door, looking at the jars that lined the shelves.

It would be a headache of a month or more verifying the ingredients, but it was necessary. Who knew what else was running around loose at court. He’d rather have a spare room full of moldering powders than having one spill out and poison half the surrounding area as well.

He took a step toward the back room, and found a young woman cowering in a corner, and a fat man, Gustaw Cala, sweating and shaking behind a desk. The air was rank with fear, and Eskel sneered as the acrid scent of piss trickled from Cala. 

He detested whimpering fools like this man.

“Grab them both, burn the building once everything is removed.”

“No, please,” Cala wailed. “How will I feed my family!?”

Eskel ignored him, looking over a jar or two as two of the larger men stuffed black bags and black cloaks over the two and bundled them, Cala thrashing and the woman limp, out of the room. He never performed his interviews off site, it added an unpleasant sense of urgency that he would rather avoid.

But, judging from the sheer amount of poisons, for most of them were rather useless for anything but killing and maiming, he would have his work cut out drawing names from the both of them. This went far beyond a single plot against Ciri and a few angry spouses.

There was enough death, carefully labeled and on display, in these jars to put half the city in its grave. He should have been more cautious, should have sent a scout or two in ages ago. 

Should have shut this place down before it came to this.

But there was no sense in looking back and cursing the past. He would simply have to remember to learn from his mistake, and keep this from happening again. And just hope that Yenn had gotten a few names out of him that could be useful.

If not, he would certainly tickle him with a few particularly unpleasant toys until he talked.

* * *

Jaskier sat toward the front of the small gathering, his seat plush and comfortable, slightly bored by the poet they were listening to. He was a fine enough man with his words, but he lacked any form of experience. The images he was painting were the dull, safe, summer days of country life.

Even the words he was using to paint said landscape were insipid at best. For a child trying their hand for the first time they would be wonderful, and he would applaud with sparkles in his eye. But, for court, even such a small gathering as the one Lady Renata Antonik had gathered?

It was an embarrassment. If only Geralt could come storming in and, quite frankly, do quite anything to liven up the parlor. Drop a dead deer at his feet as a declaration of love. Skewer the dull twat with a shaved pinecone and spare them all another miserable word.

His polite face was growing stiff, and he longed to yawn and find a way to make an excuse and leave. Violence and death he could face with ease, but this was too much.

Who was the moron that was sponsoring this man? Clearly his talents in bed must be far superior to anything that Jaskier had ever known to not only keep him around, but make others suffer through this torture. Maybe the plan was to bore Ciri to death? No, Ciri was the empress, she would have stood and left, and, no matter how good this man was between the sheets, the insult alone would have him dismissed from court.

“What’s your opinion,” the Lady Sabina leaned over, her voice a tepid whisper.

“He’s really rather young,” Jaskier said, hoping to get the point across.

He was an inexperienced dolt that hadn’t ever seen or experienced anything worth writing about. He should go out into the world and make his way by discovering inspiration. Jaskier knew he certainly had when he was younger than the attempted poet was now, and it had landed him a fantastic, though unconventional, life.

Maybe he could convince Lambert to haul the poet along with him for a while, that would prove rather interesting. If he survived the first week, that is.

“Tomorrow will be much better, I’ve invited Iwan Nedza,” her grin nearly lit up the room. “The Empress is rather fond of him, so doubtless she shall make time to attend a poem or two.”

Jaskier thought for a moment, the name tickling a memory, until he recalled that that was the author of the book he had been reading the previous day. The marvelous poetry that spoke of such emotions from the heart. That had painted scenes of misery and woe, and hope for the future.

There was a man that he would like to meet and discuss life with. One who had suffered, like much of the country had, but had found a way to put those words to the page and make his feelings, broken and miserable, known. He was almost tempted to try to haul Geralt along, certainly the witcher would be able to identify with the themes of the writing, but Geralt loathed poetry.

“Anyone of interest to attend,” Jaskier asked curiously.

He still had not met much of the court, and not a single one of the southern lords. And it was them that Jaskier needed to focus on, for one of them held a knife too steadily in his hands for Jaskier’s taste.

“I’m sure many people of note if the Empress attends,” Lady Sabina said, too refined to shrug.

Ah, she had passed out a guest list that was much the same as this one, but could not know who would do her the honor of attending. Because that was what these little gatherings were, in truth; a way to mingle higher on the social ladder.

And, if tomorrow would bring the Empress, who generally loathed sitting for the arts, then that would bring the highest rungs of the ladder. And those that were seeking to step upwards on said ladder, especially through marriage.

What a delight. He would get to hear splendid poetry first hand and investigate the southern lords all at the same time. It would be a delight if he managed to catch the voice he sought, and bring the information back to Eskel and Yenn. 

Murderer caught, poetry enjoyed, a quick trip back to his life shortly after. It would wrap up a quick week quite well. 

He smiled, ignoring how strange it must look to appear to be enjoying himself as the insipid man continued to plod on about fields of summer flowers, and looked forward to what the next day would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: help, help, I'm being bored to death!
> 
> Geralt: Huzzah!
> 
> *Geralt swings through window on a chandelier*
> 
> *Geralt throws a pinecone at the boring poet*
> 
> Entire court: ... o.o
> 
> Jaskier: whelp, seems my fiance has gone insane, gotta go-
> 
> *Eskel throws knife and turns boring poet into a poet unicorn*
> 
> Everyone: ... O.O
> 
> Jaskier: ... the fuck!?
> 
> Eskel: I saved the day?
> 
> Jaskier: you proved you're crazier than your brother is what you proved!
> 
> Eskel: whatever, I'm still the smart one.
> 
> *Eskel slinks off to disappear into the shadows*
> 
> *Eskel grabs his knife back as he is slinking*


	23. Chapter 23

Geralt ignored the world around him as he stormed back toward the training fields. He hoped that he would be able to catch Eskel there and get a good match in. Or, failing that, perhaps bring a few soldiers up to speed and remind them that they needed to be better to be able to protect his daughter.

Because, as is, she was better than the lot of them in skirts and heels. It was embarrassing.

Geralt swung his arms out wildly to regain his balanced after he was shoved to the side, and groaned as he saw a grinning Lambert.

But, on the other hand, he hadn’t trained with Lambert in ages. And his brother was certainly nearly his equal with a sword. And he wouldn’t have to slow himself down and pull his strikes in a match with him. True, he was better than Lambert, and it wouldn’t be as fun as a spar with Eskel, but it would certainly be rougher.

And Lambert wouldn’t give two shits if he took out his anger on him. His brother certainly gave as good as he got right back.

Lambert gave him a look, squinting and sniffing, and then cocked his head to the side.

“I see why Eskel thought you needed a proper fight. I thought you and that bard of yours were fucking.”

Geralt stilled.

Lambert didn’t know. And if Lambert didn’t know, Eskel would have had a very, very good reason for keeping the entire plot from their brother. Fuck.

Fuck Eskel and his scheming. Fuck Eskel and this entire situation. How did his damn brother expect him to parade around like he was _courting_ Jaskier? It was ridiculous. He knew the rumors that had floated around back then, about how he hauled the damn troubadour around to warm his bed but, given the sheer number of times he had had to haul Jaskier out of town before he got himself killed while getting caught in the beds of others, it was obviously a ridiculous rumor.

It always had been.

“You know, they don’t break when you fuck them,” Lambert finally said, grabbing a training sword and tossing one to Geralt.

Geralt just grunted.

“I mean yeah, yours is a bit older than the ones the brothels usually keep around, but he’s not ancient or anything. Unless parts are falling off, you aren’t going to hurt him. Unless he likes it a bit bloody,” Lambert leered at him.

Geralt growled, flinging himself into the spar, more fury than form, aiming to bloody Lambert’s face for the comment. The memory of waking up to Jaskier’s pained keening and whimpers was still fresh in his mind. Someone had brutalized the man, had taken a knife to him and carved into his very soul.

And a decade later Geralt could still smell the stench of fear Jaskier had of that man. Of the knives that had mutilated his face and taken his eye.

He would never stand to see Jaskier bloodied again. And certainly not by his hand.

“Of course, if you’re a little shy, I’m sure I could step in and give a few pointers.”

He slammed the pommel of the sword into Lambert’s nose with a growl, ignoring the blood, and tripped and slammed his brother to the ground. He stood there, furious, glaring down at the other witcher. How dare he! How _dare_ he!

How dare he think he would ever be allowed to lay a single finger on _his_ bard! It may have all been an act to the court, but it wasn’t to him.

The snarl dropped to his face as he realized what he was thinking.

That couldn’t be right. Yes, Yenn and Eskel had both been teasing him about Jaskier. Yes, he had missed the man, had missed traveling together across the continent with him, had missed hearing his voice and his singing, and had missed the time they had spent together. But it was just nostalgia.

That’s all it could be. Jaskier could have anyone he wanted, he would never lower himself for a witcher. Not like that.

Lambert, his face still covered in his own blood, began howling with laughter as he stared up at Geralt.

“The look on your face, brother!”

Geralt’s hand tightened on his sword, tempted to hit his brother again.

“Eskel said you had a stick up your ass you couldn’t shake loose,” Lambert grinned. “But I didn’t realize that he hadn’t beaten any sense into you too! Fucking hell brother, you want to fuck him! I’m sure he wants to fuck you. 

“Everyone thinks you’re fucking, so have some fun and fuck.”

“It’s not like that,” Geralt insisted, reaching down and pulling Lambert to his feet.

“The fucking hell it’s not. You are the most repressed cunt I have ever met. We live in a country where a fucking witcher trained woman is queen, she’s given you everything you’ve ever wanted on a golden platter as thanks, and you still look like bees have been at your cock.”

“You would know, you were the one that tried to fuck a beehive,” Geralt snorted.

“You tried to ride a bear.”

“Fuck you, I did ride that bear,” Geralt laughed.

“Now that that’s done, where does Eskel hide the good liquor?”

“It’s barely after breakfast, Lambert,” Geralt groaned.

He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow wondering what on Earth had happened to him over the last day he had spent unconscious. Because that was how Lambert celebrated the first day off the Path for the season; so sloshed that even Vesemir worried that he wouldn’t wake again. But their mutagens had always pulled through, and they had all always survived.

But he also knew that Eskel had some truly potent spirits that would put to shame anything that had ever come from Kaer Morhen’s cellars.

He didn’t know how Eskel could stomach it, but he brewed enough to last him healthy cups all year round. 

“I wouldn’t try his rooms,” Geralt finally said.

“Already have, he just had half a bottle of his moonshine left. And nothing in those little playrooms of his.”

Geralt didn’t want to think about Eskel’s little playrooms. He knew that Eskel was very good at his job, and even he had heard the rumors of his black sacks and the people that never returned. Not many, and certainly not good people, but enough that word had tickled even his ear.

He, who never listened to gossip, and avoided knowing what Eskel did at all in the first place. Eskel had turned all his training in on the human monsters they had all been taught to ignore, and he was one of the best hunters Geralt had ever seen.

“You know he hides it from you,” Geralt sighed as he started following Lambert back toward the palace.

“Not very well, I bet,” Lambert grinned. “And once you’re good and couraged up, you can fucking swoon all over that bard of yours and I can quit having to knock some sense into you.”

“Why are we discussing Jaskier in the first place,” Geralt asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Eskel has a tell.”

“Eskel always beats you at cards. He doesn’t have a tell.”

“That slimy fuck can hide in the shadows and think what he wants, but he has a tell. That’s why he gets me drunk before we play,” Lambert growled. “But mentioning you and Jaskier, his tell shows. And you’re shit at hiding secrets. So I came to beat some damn sense into you so he doesn’t have to pull one of those damn bags over your head and haul you off.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know what the fuck he would do anymore,” Lambert said, his eyes glancing around quickly. “But fuck it. He’s still my brother, and he still owes me some damn drinks.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but his brother had given him things to think about. He knew he cared about Jaskier, but he hadn’t realized how deeply that vein laced. 

No wonder Yenn and Eskel had been making fun of him. He was twice the fool he thought he was if it took Lambert to knock the truth loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lambert hits Geralt in the head*
> 
> Lambert: you're being stupid
> 
> Geralt: am not!
> 
> *Lambert hits Geralt in the head again*
> 
> Lambert: you're still being stupid
> 
> Geralt, wobbling: am not!
> 
> *Lambert hits Geralt in the head again and watches him not get up*
> 
> Lambert: now quit being stupid or I'll hit you again!
> 
> *Lambert hits Geralt again for good measure*


	24. Chapter 24

Eskel turned another page in the book Yenn had brought him, checking against his lists, and making notes in another notebook. While there were a few names he knew would pop up, some of his agents, an agent or two of another country that he had been keeping his eye on, and the handful at court that he knew used several of the ingredients for medicinal purposes, there were quite a few that he had not known.

A lot more than he liked had been skulking around, trying to avoid his notice. And, while there had not been an outbreak of sudden deaths as of late, politics meant knowing when to hold your hand as well as play it. And, clearly, he had several hands to clean before he could allow them to be played.

It was no bother, he had their names, it would be easy enough to secret the ingredients away while they were occupied elsewhere. No one would dare come screaming that their little bottles of death were missing. The smart ones would know that they were lucky he hadn’t come for them as well.

Those that did not take the hint, well, he always had rooms spare to spirit them away to. Some to remind, some to disappear.

But he was trying to avoid such a problem at court, as Ciri would complain if a third of the silk wrapped vipers suddenly went missing.

Eskel made note of another name and his shoulders slumped. He was going to be busy all winter cleaning up this mess.

A hand rapped gently on his door before his door opened, and he looked up, exhausted and hoping it was food. Paperwork always left him ravenous. But, to his disappointment, it was merely one of his assistants with a new stack of papers in hand.

“The woman talked freely,” his assistant said, carefully placing the paperwork on his desk. “Her sister has seizures, and Cala was providing the medicine for free. All of the names she remembered are here, as are the suppliers that she knew of.”

Eskel nodded, glancing over the pages. While the names weren’t in the same neat order, most of them seemed to match up at a glance. He had never thought the woman was much more that an assistant dragged into dirty business, her stench of fear and anxiety lacked any tinge of guilt. If there was a sick relative, well, it was easy to hold up a knife and get solid work than trust someone you didn’t have a hold over.

“Have her released and watched,” Eskel thought for a moment. “A full month of constant shifts, someone may approach her. And point her in the direction of one of the healing charities, that should cover her sister and keep her out from under a thumb.”

The assistant nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

That just left Eskel with Cala. Cala, who was hip deep in sludge and guilt. Who had whimpered and pleaded and tried to bribe all of his assistants from under his black hood. Cala, would be like carving up an over stuffed, half roasted pig.

And Eskel didn’t doubt he would have to tear him to pieces to get the whole truth out of him. Men like him learned to lose themselves in their lies as a way of protection. Mostly to protect themselves from admitting to what they were doing when they lay in bed at night, trying to sleep, and trying to ignore the guilt that was eating them alive from the inside out.

At least Cala was one of the ones that felt guilt. There was no getting anything out of the ones that didn’t.

Eskel heaved a sigh, rising from his chair and stretching. 

He had already dispatched a half dozen people with twice as many names, and what poisons to find and collect. Discreetly. The cleansing of the palace would go slowly, but thoroughly. Checking paperwork wouldn’t help anymore today, but getting information out of Cala would.

And Eskel had a black bag that Cala needed to see opened.

* * *

Yenn frowned in distaste as Eskel slipped into her workrooms, drops of blood browning along the hem of his left sleeve. Of all the witchers, Eskel was normally the neatest. Although he did get more caught up in his work than the others. 

Clearly nothing could really change a witcher. Some just adapted better to their surroundings than others.

“Which one are those from,” Yenn asked, still carefully grinding several herbs.

It wasn’t an important concoction, just a little something to help of the more supportive members of the palace with a fever they had managed to catch, but it was enough to occupy her hands. Her mind was still racing around the events of this morning, and she didn’t want to add anything more dangerous to end the day.

It wouldn’t do to accidentally take out a wing of the palace with an uncontrolled explosion. Ciri would never let her hear the end of it, not with how much she harped on about safety and control all through her daughter’s explosive teenage years.

Eskel glanced at his shirt sleeve and groaned.

“Fucking Cala,” he snapped. “That asshole bleeds and screams like a stuck pig.”

“Is he dead, then,” Yenn asked curiously.

She had thought Eskel would take days to unleash his pent up fury on the man. He did have a tendency to be rather overprotective of Ciri at times. It was half the reason, she was sure, that he had given up the Path in favor of the palace life. Though he certainly made generous use of proper hygiene, which she could only approve of.

“No, just a little beaten and sore.”

Yenn eyes the blood on Eskel’s cuff again.

“And you’re in desperate need of several potions, I’m assuming. Blood potions, bone potions, a few for knitting the muscles back together as well? I’m not a candy factory for your little hell hole, Eskel, you should be more sparing with your toys,” Yenn sighed, making note of which ingredients were running low.

Although, given they had hauled off Cala’s entire stock, it wouldn’t be amiss to confiscate some of it for her own. She was half surprised that Eskel hadn’t arranged for the more mundane parts to be sent up already.

“A guilty man takes a few days to really spill his secrets,” Eskel informed her. “The first day to lie, the second day to realize the truth, and the third day to tell it.”

“I would have thought you were more efficient than that,” Yenn placed her pestle down on the table, carefully emptying the fever medication into a small pouch. 

The medicine should do the work, but she would have the healers keep an eye on her just in case. She wasn’t a trained healer, just a sorceress, and it would be better for those more experienced in the healing arts than her to manage the treatment. She would have to check their stocks as well, but the palace healers normally didn’t need any assistance with medicine. They knew what they needed and how to make it, though, on rare occasion, her expertise was required.

“Three days is fairly efficient for a true confession, Yenn,” Eskel told her. “It used to take a week to get anything truthful from their mouths.”

“I doubt even I could keep most people alive a week with you having your way with them,” Yenn grabbed several jars of herbs and began measuring out doses.

Eskel glanced at several labels thoughtfully, but Yenn ignored him. He knew what she kept, and he knew that she was still the master of her crafts. Yes, she could spin together poisons that would take the entire city to their grave, but she was never truly angry enough at any one to take that spite out on the innocents.

There had been a few cases of a few lords shitting themselves at most inopportune times, but she doubted Eskel would even take a moment to care about anything as mundane as soiled trousers. He let her have her fun, and she enabled him to have his in turn.

It was better for the kingdom if they both kept their cogs well oiled and turning in such ways.

“How much has Cala told you so far,” Yenn finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Not much, a bunch of whimpering about he was only an innocent pawn, setup by evil masters. The normal blather of shills.”

“Fat chance that, with his inventory,” Yenn snorted.

“Agreed. Had been a package or two, possibly. But he was certainly funding himself a rather toxic empire. We’ve managed to start recollecting his wares from several purchasers, but it will be a while before it’s safe to trust the food again, I imagine.”

“And darling Ciri will have half the women of court starving all winter for it,” Yenn groaned.

Her tiny mouthfuls had become a rather dangerous fad, and Yenn had heard from the healers that more than one young woman had had to be assigned a medicinal diet of food rather than wine and water to keep them alive. 

It was going to be a long winter at this rate.

“This will be enough to keep him alive for three more days,” Yenn said, dumping the mixture into another little bag for Eskel. “Just blood and bone, nothing fancy, and nothing for the pain. And if you could see to it-”

“Cala’s safer wares shall be delivered to you by tomorrow,” Eskel cut her off with a nod. “Thank you.”

Yenn shrugged, turning her back and letting him disappear back through the door to his darkened corridors. But, in the scheme of things, she didn’t even feel sorry for Cala, or regret what Eskel was going to do to him.

He had signed his own death warrant the moment he had tried to kill her daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel: ... I broke my toy.
> 
> Yenn: again!? I just gave it to you today!
> 
> *Eskel kicks at dirt on the floor*
> 
> Eskel: I know...
> 
> Yenn: fine, I'll fix your toy. But you better play nicer with your toys from now on young man, I won't always fix them for you!
> 
> Eskel: yay!
> 
> *Eskel jumps for joy and takes the potions down to the basement so he can keep playing*


	25. Chapter 25

Jaskier slammed the door behind himself, grateful to see the spread of more solid fare across the table, and glared at Geralt. Geralt, who was already grabbing a loaf of bread. Geralt, who was beginning to wilt under his glare.

Geralt, who held out a block of cheese as a peace offering.

“Well, that could have gone a bit fucking better,” Jaskier snapped, resisting the urge to grab the cheese and hurl it at the buffoon.

But he had gone without enough in his life not to waste food in anger. So, instead, he grabbed the bottle of wine, fell into a chair, and took a deep swallow. Fuck, could he turn into a raging alcoholic in less than a week? He would have to ask Yenn, she probably had.

This is what being a sorceress must feel like, he realized. Watching everyone in the room around you and realizing they’re just that much stupider than you. Geralt certainly had been.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offered, swallowing a mouthful of meat.

“Trust me when I say that I am going to be very glad when I am gone so that I will not have to hear whispers about what happened tonight for the rest of my life,” Jaskier snapped, taking another swallow.

Fuck, he glanced down at his right hand and realized that he had clenched it so hard his nails had cut the skin. Fuck. He hated having cuts on his hand.

Hated the memories, and the nightmares, they would bring.

“You told me to act more like we were involved,” Geralt snapped back. “You told me to be ‘soft’. So that’s what I fucking did!”

“I didn’t tell you to practically bend me over and fuck me over the damn table!” 

Geralt rolled his eyes and stuffed his mouth with a slice of cheese and bread. Jaskier continued to glare.

Because, really, he should have expected something like this to happen. Should have expected that Geralt, Geralt who knew nothing about human emotions outside of how not to have them, would not know how to be appropriately soft in public. He wouldn’t know how to sneak gentle caresses, how to be enamored. 

He was a witcher. He knew how to kill monsters and be more stubborn than the flowing rivers and sinking mountains. Nothing could have changed that.

And Jaskier most certainly would not have been able to with a few minutes and a passing comment or two in the morning. Fuck. He should have thought of that. He hadn’t thought that Geralt would take the role too seriously, and certainly not serious enough for whatever the fuck he had been thinking tonight.

“That southern lord was eyeing you like a piece of meat,” Geralt finally growled, turning away from Jaskier’s glare and grabbing a fruit tart.

“He was eyeing me up like one does of someone politically intriguing in court! That’s the entire reason for this farce, to make them intrigued and want to come speak to me!” Jaskier yelled. “Especially the southern lords! One of them wants to put a knife in your daughter, remember?”

“Ciri can take care of herself,” Geralt growled. “Better with a knife than any of those stuck up assholes.”

“Not better with poison though. Or whatever they really want to do to her next. I guarantee it,” Jaskier said, twisting the half full bottle in his hand.

He should really stop now. He had drunk enough wine in anger, while pretending not to care, during dinner that this bottle wasn’t doing him any favors. He couldn’t take strong liquor like he had when he was younger, and this was certainly not watered down. He had to hand it to Ciri, at least she knew not to cut the spirits.

“Did you honestly think pulling me into your lap and practically finger feeding me all night while glaring at others looked sweet and soft,” Jaskier asked, leaning back and taking another sip.

The giggles and raised eyebrows would haunt his dreams for quite a while. Even Ciri had let out a few muted laughs at the sight, and he had not doubt that Eskel was already telling the tale to Lambert and Yenn elsewhere right now. And there had been nothing he could do about it without giving the damn game away.

So he had let Geralt pull him to his side and glare at the southern lord he had hoped to discuss anything at all with. And then hid his surprise quite well as Geralt had pulled him into his lap.

He assumed he had cut his hands when Geralt had started to insist on feeding him himself, though, at least, that had wavered to merely glaring at others and nudging Jaskier to eat while he had been trying, and failing, to hold a polite conversation with those around him.

But it was certainly a sight he didn’t think he would ever be able to live down. Thank all the gods he would be leaving the instant the assassin was captured. Even his lusty reputation couldn’t live Geralt’s possessive behavior down.

He glanced up but Geralt was just glowering at his food, holding it to have rather than something to eat.

And that was the crux of the problem. They were depending on Geralt for this little ploy, and Geralt was trying his hardest. He just didn’t know what the fuck to do. He had told Jaskier that, and Jaskier had just brushed him off. It was his fault. He should have realized that Geralt wasn’t good at improv, and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to carry himself without something happening.

He should have just left him playing the wooden, stilted suitor. At least it looked more natural.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” Geralt said, his voice a deep, rumbling growl. “I didn’t like how they were all eyeing you up like a piece of meat, trying to decide who got which cut! You are mine, not theirs! Mine!”

The food was gone from Geralt’s hands, and Jaskier found that the witcher wasn’t glaring at him anymore, he was staring. His eyes bright, his chest heaving, and Jaskier took another swallow of wine. 

He hadn’t seen Geralt as attractive in a long time. No, he had always seen Geralt as attractive, he was only half blind and decrepit, he wasn’t dead. But he had also put those old feelings in the past, let them break and shatter and left them behind when he had been tossed away on a mountain all those years ago.

Had finally come to terms with the fact that Geralt would never look at him like he was looking at him now.

Fuck it, Jaskier thought as he took another swallow of wine. It’s not like he was going to be around in another week. He had wanted to fall into the witcher’s bed for twenty years. And he hadn’t had a good tumble in ages, the salty fragrance of a fisherman certainly didn’t bring anyone running these days. It wasn’t like his looks were doing much better for himself either. And a few coins rarely covered much.

“Yours,” Jaskier asked, raising an eyebrow.

Geralt stormed up to him, ignoring the bottle as it fell to the ground, spilling wine across the carpets, and hauled him into a kiss. It was rough, all teeth and tongue, and tasted of sour cheese and mutton, but it was heady.

“Mine.” Geralt insisted again. “Should have known, should have always known. Mine.”

Geralt nuzzled into his neck, and Jaskier groaned as he stretched his head aside. He felt Geralt’s tongue, and then the teeth as he began to nibble, and Geralt pulled him closer.

Thank the gods for high collars and court fashion, Jaskier thought as he moaned and thrust his hips against the witcher. Fuck, he may not know his way around a court dinner, but at least he knew how to use his tongue. 

Geralt’s hands wandered to his ass, and gave a squeeze.

“Do an old man the pleasure of getting to a comfortable bed first,” Jaskier gasped, eyeing the bedroom door.

He was not young enough to think he would be happily walking anywhere the next day if they found themselves rolling around on thin carpets over hard stone. Geralt, at least, seemed to understand and growled, practically hauling him toward the bedroom.

Jaskier hummed in appreciation, nibbling on Geralt’s ear. It had only taken thirty years, but at least he would finally have a tumble with the witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt flirts aggressively*
> 
> Jaskier: really?
> 
> *Geralt doubles down on the flirting. With teeth.*
> 
> *Jaskier rolls his eyes*
> 
> Geralt: sex now, yes?
> 
> *Jaskier pauses and thinks a moment*
> 
> Jaskier: yeah, sure, why not. I'm not getting any younger!
> 
> Yenn, to Eskel: you owe me money.
> 
> Eskel: dammit, he couldn't have held out his love confession until after the feast!?


	26. Chapter 26

Jaskier groaned and stretched, letting the wonderful ache of a long night of fucking work itself through his muscles. He hadn’t felt like this in years, more years than he cared to remember, and he had forgotten how pleasant it was. He could remember now why, when he was younger, he kept finding himself tumbling through windows to escape. It was completely worth it.

Strong arms pulling him close to a bed warming inferno of a chest, lips mouthing at his neck, and Jaskier was surprised to realize that Geralt was still there in bed with him. He would have thought the witcher had woken and left with the sun. 

This was going to be awkward. How did one extricate themselves from a bed full of naked, clingy witcher? Even in his youth he had usually avoided this delicate and difficult moment.

He honestly never realized that Geralt was such a fan of cuddling. He should have guessed it, though. He had always been pudding in his hands when they bathed. No one loved his scalp massages that much.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Geralt groaned, nipping at Jaskier’s neck.

“That’s what us little spies do,” Jaskier replied, gently tracing one of the arms that was holding him close.

Yes, that’s what little spies did. And that’s what he was right now, covered in thick blankets and held by a handsome man; a spy. A spy with places to be, and people to talk to. A spy that still had an assassin to hunt and find, and turn over to Eskel so Yenn would finally take him away from this life and let him finally just relax.

The arms weren’t loosening.

This was not how he had wanted to wake up this morning, though last night was more than enjoyable enough to make it worth it. For all that humanity had certainly loathed witchers before he had come along to start softening their reputation, Geralt was certainly well versed in a proper fucking.

“I need to get up Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, trying to squirm free again.

Geralt sighed, and loosened his arms. Jaskier took a moment to brace himself for the cold air, neither of them had banked the fire properly the night before before they had fallen into bed, and bit his tongue to keep from yelping as his feet met the frigid floor. 

He glanced back at a very disheveled Geralt, a Geralt who was grinning and still half wrapped in blankets, and sighed. He couldn’t return to that little nest if he wanted to get anything done today at all.

And it was important he made it to the poetry reading that Iwan Nedza was giving this morning. Especially if Ciri, and most likely more than a handful of southern lords, was to be in attendance. He still hadn’t heard the exact tones he had been listening for, and, as human as he was, he was beginning to be afraid that the voice was fading from his mind. 

Soon it may be any southern accent at all, and Eskel couldn’t round up the entire entourage of southern lords without ringing alarm bells.

There was still more than a few that feared she would turn to her grandmother’s stubborn and aggressively violent ways. Those same ways that cost her grandmother her kingdom and her life, and the lives of many, many others.

“I’ll be around the courts most of the day,” Jaskier said, laying out a suit of a deep blue. He found that, as he aged, he was finally actually mature enough to pull off the darker colors. They spoke of well spent years of study. And they made his eyes pop.

Geralt was frowning.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to find the assassin today, and I’ll be out of your hair before the feast. By the feast at the latest,” Jaskier said, wondering if he should try to hide the hickeys that Geralt had left and then decided that, given that everyone knew he was warming Geralt’s bed anyway, he may as well let them be seen. It would only add to the cover.

“What about this,” Geralt asked, sitting up, a glower on his face.

“This,” Jaskier asked, a little confused. “Geralt, I’m an old man. Running around and playing the spy again is fun, but this will be my last little performance. I can’t keep doing it, old spies die too easily. Best I bow out now, at the top, and leave a stunning reputation. Although the captured and getting tortured part is a bit of a blemish, really should have been good enough to avoid that.”

“No, dammit,” Geralt growled. “This!”

And Jaskier suddenly realized that Geralt was still naked in bed. Had still been there, after the sun had risen, holding him tight. Had tried to keep him in bed.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, desperately wishing for a chair to sit down in. “That.”

Geralt froze, pulling the blankets tighter around his still naked form, and Jaskier fiddled with his buttons. He hadn’t thought that Geralt would think anything of a quick tumble. He knew the witcher did that, though he had never done it without paying. He had just assumed that, as the court now begrudgingly accepted him, he had had his share of flings as well.

Maybe it was more convenient to have just one bed partner around? And, well, Jaskier didn’t like to toot his own horn, but he did consider himself fairly experienced. But he didn’t think he was a good enough lay for Geralt to be upset about him not being here, and available, so soon. 

Geralt looked so tiny, in his own way, sitting in bed, surrounded by blankets and staring into his lap. Jaskier didn’t like that he had done this, but he had honestly not thought it was anything more than a quick fuck. One that he had hoped they would have had years ago, but it would never be anything permanent. It couldn’t be. 

It really, never could be.

“I have to go now, Geralt,” Jaskier finally said, his fingers tracing his palm scars nervously. “We can talk about things later, okay?”

Geralt didn’t reply, and Jaskier swallowed and left, closing the door behind him and trying to ignore Geralt curling in on himself, lost in a mound of blankets.

* * *

Eskel carefully tightened the straps on Cala’s arms before moving to his legs, making sure that every limb was securely fastened to the chair. Cala, for his part, didn’t fight him. He merely whimpered, his face an interesting mosaic of black and purple, and watched as Eskel went about his work.

The entire room stank of fear. Old fear, deeply embedded in the stones, as unwashable as the blood, and the rank, sharp odor of new fear. Of Cala’s fear. Which is exactly what Eskel wanted. He wanted the other man to remember yesterday, to remember how he had been beaten until only the potions he had poured down his throat had kept him alive.

And he wanted him to remember _why_ he was alive.

It was not on Eskel’s mercy that he breathed, Eskel had none of that. No, it was because Eskel still needed something from him. He needed the truth. The honest truth. Not a single name forgotten and held back.

And he would demand the same of him again tomorrow. Just to be sure.

Because Eskel never liked having to doubt or be wrong about his work.

“Do you remember what we talked about yesterday,” Eskel asked, opening his black bag and carefully placing his tools on the white sheet.

Cala just whimpered and quaked.

Eskel took that as a yes.

“You sold many things to many people,” Eskel started, taking a knife, a small little thing with a wicked blade, and walking over to Cala. “But I need their names. You understand, I’m sure, why I must so thoroughly check.”

Cala nodded, tears streaming down his face.

Eskel smiled, taking the knife and beginning to, slowly, delicately, drag the knife down the side of Cala’s face. A thin ribbon of red blossomed up behind the knife, unwinding faster than the steel and dripping down his throat.

“The first name you remember, please.”

* * *

Jaskier smiled as Lady Antonik greeted him politely. The room had a rather large scattering of people, all dressed in their best, and Jaskier could already seem them eyeing the chairs around where Ciri would obviously be sitting. Like sharks for blood, they were circling in the water.

“Really, he is such a charming gentleman, I’m sure you’re have so much to discuss,” Lady Antonik said, leading him through the taffeta skirted forests to a single gentleman with a book.

Jaskier was shocked, he hadn’t thought that Iwan Nedza would be nearly half his age. His words spoke of someone who had experienced so much of the world, but, then, the war had aged them all so fast.

“Iwan, I know you mentioned wanting to meet this darling gentleman and being a fan of his works in the past,” Lady Antonik smiled. “So I would like to introduce you to Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jaskier smiled. “But please, call me Jaskier, I’m too old to support the weight of such a name as that.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I admired your work greatly while growing up,” Iwan Nedza smiled back, a daring twinkle in his eyes.

Jaskier’s face froze, still smiling, as he heard Nedza’s southern lilt. That same familiar lilt that had been haunting his dreams.

He had him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: ...
> 
> Jaskier: I mean, I didn't think... Geralt, it was just sex.
> 
> *Geralt pouts in corner*
> 
> Jaskier: you do that, don't you?
> 
> *Geralt sobs*
> 
> Jaskier: I feel like, perhaps, I have read the situation very, very poorly. And kicked a puppy.
> 
> Jaskier: but fuck it, I wanna go be a spy and do spy things!
> 
> Everyone: ... o.o


	27. Chapter 27

Eskel growled as he slipped silently into Yenn’s private lab, still furious about Cala. He had stripped that man bare, to the bone in places, but still the answers had not changed. He had given everything there was to give, but only the names of two southern lords were on the list.

One had left the court two months back, and the second, and Eskel had had it thoroughly confirmed, used his potions for medicinal purposes to keep from dying. His supply was well organized and well labeled, and there had been no smell of untruth on him.

And there was no man who could escape into a lie when Eskel towered over them, angry, and questioned them. 

“Uncle Eskel, you’re in a mood,” Ciri said in surprise, looking up from the book she was leafing through.

Yenn was sorting ingredients and just hummed in greeting as she began weighing powders out.

“I take it your last little snatch didn’t give up the goods,” Ciri said, closing the book with a marker carefully.

“None of the southern lords used Cala for anything illegal,” Eskel snapped, pacing along the floor. “Which either means I need to have every apothecary in the damn city searched, or we have a traitor lurking in the court.”

“Jaskier said it was a southern accent he heard,” Yenn replied, still careful with her movements. “You’ll need to question the other apothecaries in the city. Though, please, don’t drag them down into the basement if you please. We want them to still be operational in the morning.”

Eskel just glowered at Yenn, but she was right. Disappearing Cala had been an easy call to make, the man dealt death without a thought, but the others were, mostly, clean. And apothecaries were necessary for the citizens, who would be without medicines if they moved on.

But he had more than a few ways to get answers and check records, not everyone was in need of a black sack and a long talk.

He paused as he realized that Yenn was nearly humming to herself, _happily_ humming to herself. And Ciri had a grin that nearly split her face in two.

“What happened,” Eskel demanded.

“You tell him darling, though wait a moment. I want to see his face,” Yenn said.

“Yes mother,” Ciri nearly giggled, a knife twirling through her fingers in excitement.

Eskel groaned. Nothing good could come of the two of them being so excited over something. Far too excited and chipper to be anything dreadful, but that only left the little issues from around court that left him cleaning up the messes. Someone slipped a laxative tea during a dull meeting, a fight between two lovers in public.

And, his personal favorite, Lambert getting caught doing something. It didn’t matter what, but Lambert always managed to get caught doing it.

“You owe me twenty gold crowns,” Yenn grinned, finally setting powders to the side and turning to face him.

Eskel raised an eyebrow.

“Jaskier had hickies damn near to his chin at that flouncy poetry reading this morning,” Ciri chirped.

So Geralt finally got laid. Damn near took him long enough. He was certain that Jaskier would be a century in the grave with the way Geralt was avoiding the situation. But, he nearly sighed in relief, at least it wasn’t Lambert causing problems.

“Enjoy the money, witch,” Eskel grinned, tossing his money pouch to Yenn.

“Always do, wolf,” Yenn said, weighing the pouch carefully in her hands before nodding. “But I take it you aren’t here to rant.”

Eskel nodded, glancing over at Ciri. Dear, sweet, deadly little Ciri, who was still more at home on a battlefield or a training grounds than she was at court. Who had made swordsmanship a popular hobby amongst the ladies of the court, and still wore armor under her gowns.

But no amount of any of that could save her from every threat that twisted around the corners and the windowsills of court.

“I need a restock of several potions,” Eskel admitted.

“The last supply should have lasted you three days,” Yenn pointed out. “How many do you have down there, luxuriating under your little steel caresses?”

“Just Cala at the moment,” Eskel told her. “But I was rather thorough today. Tomorrow will check the truth as well.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow, and glanced back over at Yenn. Yenn just shrugged and nodded, but didn’t turn to begin mixing potions immediately.

Eskel waited for one of the women to break the silence and begin talking. He knew Ciri’s little tells, she was always so obvious when she was nervous, and Yenn’s calm demeanor and stiff pose were also a clear sign that there was something more than simply his brother’s sex life.

“Not Lambert,” he asked for assurance.

“Not Lambert,” Yenn confirmed. “But we may need to keep Jaskier at court longer than the end of the week.”

“The ambassadors from Redania have asked to begin talks about a slow absorption of the nation. They can’t afford to rebuild, and even Oxenfurt is collapsing in on itself. Half their professors are here in the city, teaching privately.

“The rest of their nobles keep trying to find ways to visit long term as well. They were passing around joining through union with me, but I cut that stalk short. Now, with father and Jaskier, they see their opening.

“They think that Jaskier being wedded to Geralt will help cement the treaty,” Ciri said.

“They approached you,” Eskel asked to be sure.

He had heard the rumors ever since Jaskier had been introduced to court. But he had never thought Redania would be so desperate as to use the farce as an excuse. He had thought it would be at least another ten years before their country simply collapsed around them, and Ciri was left to take in the pieces.

“Very formally,” Ciri confirmed. “My advisers are pressing for it, they think it’s a marvelous idea. We have half of the Redanian population living in our borders already anyway, may as well give them their homes back.”

“It would go a long way to impressing the southern countries into how poor a choice it would be to attempt an attack as well,” Yenn pointed out.

Eskel nodded thoughtfully. More land, more resources, more power. They wouldn’t be ready for another war any time soon, but Ciri, at the moment, was concentrating on establishment and defense. Defending a country was easy, people rallied to defend their homes. And the south, well, it would be harder to fight against a nation that was growing before you. And even harder to rally the citizens to fight such a war after having already been broken so thoroughly by the last one.

His little spies did like to bring him whispers that the southern lands, for all they appeared to be united, were suffering from their fair share of problems.

“If Geralt has finally managed to open up to him, he may choose to remain of his own accord,” Eskel finally said. “I wouldn’t stand against it.”

Yenn’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but Eskel knew her. He knew her silence meant that she wasn’t as sure as the two of them that it would work out.

“Good, it’ll be nice not to hear about father going around and being an asshole all day for once,” Ciri smiled, picking her book back and losing herself in it.

Ah, the blinding wonders of youthful hope. He hoped that she would be proven right.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t have any qualms about his decisions. He had sworn that he would protect Ciri, and he would. And he had discovered that Nedza was the poisoner. But it left too many questions.

Who had sent Nedza? That was the one that beat, so clearly, in his mind. Because he had been Nedza, or nearly had been, once upon a time. And he had never acted without orders. And, while he assumed there was a southern power of one variety or another holding the leash around his neck, he couldn’t be sure.

The war had toppled more than a few northern families as well, and it wouldn’t be without precedence that a southern accent would be chosen to throw off a scent. And maybe Eskel could cut the answers away from Nedza, but Jaskier would not wish that upon the man.

He had been that man. He could never wish that cruelty on another, and certainly not a fellow poet. He liked to think there was, at least, a little honor and brotherhood left amongst those of the craft.

“A letter, sir,” a servant said softly, handing him a note.

Jaskier nodded his thanks and opened it carefully.

Nedza was inviting him to meet mid morning the next day.

Good, Jaskier thought. Hopefully he would be able to get answers from the man. Cleaner answers than the blood soaked rumors that Eskel left staining the ground in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eskel and Yenn haggle over bets about Geralt's love life*
> 
> *Jaskier squawks in the background*
> 
> Jaskier: how dare you bet on me and not include me in on it!
> 
> *Jaskier storms off in a huff to get himself killed doing something stupid*
> 
> Geralt: ... fuck.


	28. Chapter 28

Jaskier was not an anxious man by habit, he reassured himself. He did not fiddle with his sleeves, he did not have inconvenient issues with sweat, he did not lurk in doorways too nervous to enter rooms. He was Jaskier, once the greatest bard of the land, and then an amazing spy that helped break the tyranny of Nilfgaard.

He was not a five year old that lingered after dinner, afraid that his father would have cruel words to say for his particularly bad behavior.

But here he was now, tracing his way through the palace through the longest corridors that he could find, trying to avoid his rooms. No, that wasn’t right, their rooms, or even just Geralt’s rooms, because he was more a guest than anything.

Just a passing memory to entertain the court with his brilliance one last time.

Except Geralt had obviously thought more of it. Had, perhaps, latched onto their little a farce a little too hard, and sunk a little too deep, and Jaskier had made the mistake of falling into bed with him not realizing that.

He should have realized that. Geralt had always been biting anger and cruel words to him, telling him how much he hated his voice, how they weren’t friends. How the only blessing he needed in life was to be free of him.

He could only hope that, just maybe, all of last night was because of something Yenn had slipped into his drink. He didn’t think she would ever do anything as cruel as that, but it’s all he could imagine. And hopefully he had forgotten it by noon, and was too busy with other things to attend dinner with him.

Jaskier didn’t like to lie to himself, or, at least, not that much. The little lies made life possible, the bigger ones made life a blinding madness. And he was too old to fall into that trap anymore. Gold never gilded anything well but picture frames.

So, winding down the hallways, Jaskier silently entered the room.

Geralt was sitting there, the table half empty next to him, staring into the fire that crackled and danced on the hearth. His hair was still the knotted mess of this morning, and his clothes looked half hazard at best.

He hadn’t left the rooms, then, while Jaskier had been out.

Now he just felt miserable. He had never meant to do this, he had never thought a good fuck meant more to Geralt that the time it lasted. 

What could he say that didn’t sound utterly miserable and wrong in a situation like this? 

“Another package of clothes arrived for you,” Geralt growled, not taking his eyes from the fire.

“Oh, that’s-”

“Plain wool and canvas,” Geralt interrupted him. “You weren’t even going to consider staying, were you? Was this just another tumble through the sheets? Should I consider myself lucky I didn’t wake up alone after you climbed out the damn window!?”

Jaskier stilled, resisting the urge to bite at his lip, and tried not to snap at Geralt. He had hurt the other man, without meaning to, and, apparently, he was leaving a scar he shouldn’t. This is what fucking came of following sorceress’ into portals.

“Geralt, the only reason I’m here at all is because Yenn tracked me down to play at that stupid feast Ciri is throwing-”

“That’s not why Yenn did it,” Geralt snapped, turning his face to glare at Jaskier.

Jaskier felt so sorry for the witcher, his face drawn and his eyes bloodshot. He should have realized that Geralt wouldn’t know what a fun fuck was, let alone ever have had one. All he knew was paid whores and the intensity of whatever he and Yenn had had once upon a time. He didn’t associate courts with the acceptable hedonism that Jaskier dabbled in.

“I asked her to,” Geralt said. “I told Ciri I missed traveling the Path. With you. She asked Yenn to find you, for the feastday. That damn feastday in my honor.”

That, Jaskier suddenly realized, put a lot of things in a clearer perspective. The lens was still shattered across the floor, but there it stood. Geralt had felt something for him, enough to mention it and have a sorceress spend who knows how long tracking him down and bring him back.

Like an old toy that had been buried in the bottom of a chest, and was now sorely missed.

“You spent twenty years telling me how worthless I was,” Jaskier snapped back, letting his temper finally get the better of him. “Twenty years of me following you, hoping you would change your mind, and, instead, all I get is quips about how bad my precious singing was, how I was only good for cuckolding the court!

“Of how much better your life would have been without me!”

Jaskier was heaving, he could feel his face red and his scar pulling his lips into a snarl.

“I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that I’m the one that should have been surprised you were still there in the morning, who should be wondering if he got used and tossed aside again, just like the damn old days!”

Geralt didn’t wince back at the words. He didn’t quaver, and tears didn’t stream down his cheeks at the cruel truths Jaskier lashed out with. No, Geralt was not one to meekly accept anger and hope it dissipated once the words stopped ringing in his ears. Geralt was on his feet, growling and in Jaskier’s face.

Furious now, face ablaze.

“I saved you countless times! I hauled you to Yenn before you died, I dragged you away from every raging husband or wife that you dared sully the bed of, I saved your life time and time again!”

“That’s what you do!” Jaskier roared back. “You save people! You storm in with a sword or a sign, and you save people. You do it for the townspeople that spit on you and throw rocks, and you do it for the bard that you hate! It’s what you were _made_ to do!”

Jaskier froze as he realized what he had said, how he had dehumanized Geralt to being nothing more than a _thing_ , just like all the other assholes in court that he so loathed. 

He knew better. Knew that Geralt was stiff and cold because the world had tossed him out into the freezing winter winds so many times he couldn’t help to be what he had been beaten in the shape of. Knew that Geralt, really, was a good man. He helped because he had the power to, not because there was no other way. He had raised a daughter who ruled with a steel tipped kindness, a kindness she would have never learned if Geralt had not been there to show it to her.

He was many things, but a thing wasn’t one of them.

But Jaskier couldn’t take back his words now, could hear them echoing through the room still, his chest heaving and his skin going clammy as the anger drained from him.

He should have known that Geralt would have difficulty with all of this, had never known how to express his emotions because he had over a century of denying them getting in the way. And Jaskier had to go and open his big, fat mouth and rub poor Geralt’s face in it.

He should have said something to Geralt the first year they traveled together, not leave it bottled up to explode after thirty.

“I’ll leave,” Jaskier said, breaking the brittle silence.

“No, Jaskier-”

“Not tonight Geralt,” Jaskier said, his hand already on the door. “I’m sorry for what I said, but I can’t take back the last thirty years. And neither can you.”

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt said, but the door shut him off and Jaskier nearly tumbled down the hallway in his haste to escape from a past he desperately needed to forget right now.

A past that he should have left buried. A past that he should have ignored the instant that purple eyed enchantress walked through a tavern door, and pretended to not know what she was talking about. Even if she would have turned him into a toad for it. Better to live out his life honestly than fall into the traps he was now setting off.

He knocked calmly on the door, impressed that the man had ranked his own room rather than merely a bed in the servant quarters. But, as he was favored by the empress, Jaskier should have known not to be surprised.

“Jaskier,” Iwan Nedza smiled, opening the door, his doublet unlaced. “I wasn’t expecting you until the morning.”

“One of the many lessons I have learned at court is to never leave a handsome man waiting,” Jaskier smiled, hoping his eyes had not turned red.

Iwan’s smile widened, and he stepped aside to allow Jaskier into his rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I didn't mean to be that harsh. But, really, he fucking needed it.
> 
> *Geralt sobs in the corner*
> 
> Jaskier: I mean, seriously! WTF!?
> 
> *Geralt continues to sob*
> 
> Jaskier: so, I'm going to go play spy games and get my fuck on!
> 
> *record screeches*
> 
> Everyone: ... o.o


	29. Chapter 29

“Trouble in paradise already,” Iwan asked, pouring Jaskier a glass of amber liquor.

Jaskier snorted, taking the glass and letting himself gentley collapse into one of the two overstuffed chairs that were pulled next to the fireplace.

The rooms were small, Jaskier wouldn’t have expected otherwise, but they were the cluttered neatness of a poet. Books and papers, half scribbled, sprawled across a nearby desk, and a gentle slope of papers had gathered on the floor. Cozy, with room to think and enjoy thinking.

He assumed the sole other door led to the bedroom, probably half a mess more. No poet he ever knew kept the bed in any state other than half slept in. And, usually, well occupied when used.

Jaskier was already causing so many other problems by lingering around court, the faster he got quick answers from Nedza the faster he could disappear. Disappear and put this entire well fed, well dressed nightmare behind him. And hope that Yenn never went hunting for him again until long after he was dead.

“If by paradise you mean an amazingly convenient country acquiring treaty,” Jaskier said, deciding to let the gossip about Redania become truth. “Then yes. Geralt is not an… easy man to get along with.”

“Apparently he was easy to get along with last night at dinner,” Nedza pointed out with a grin.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and took a large swallow. Brandy, and strong at that. But the vintage was good, and the burn was smooth. He had to give the other man credit, he did have amazing taste in liquor.

“Tell an untrained dog to perform tricks and you sometimes get wonders,” Jaskier sighed, accepting another few fingers of brandy in his glass.

“Is that all he is, then,” Iwan asked. “I rather would have thought more, given your history together.”

“Most of it is more romanticized legend than anything else, you know how us bards like to embellish. I traveled with him off and on, his adventures were an amazing muse, but it was never anything more than that. Ciri had me dusted off and hauled out from my comfy little home because of the treaty.

“I’m an old man, who am I to turn away living out the rest of my life in the comfort of court? If I have to spread my legs from time to time and take one for the kingdom, well, there are less attractive men than Geralt out there. I just wish he wasn’t so bitey all the time.”

Iwan laughed and raised his glass at that.

“Should we all have such glorious, and well fed ends when we age into our twilight.”

Jaskier raised his glass in agreement, and swallowed it all down. By Melitele’s sweet tits, he was already half drunk and didn’t care. 

“Better than the alternative, starving and digging your own grave in the nearest ditch you can find,” Jaskier agreed, accepting a pour of a finger more. He had done the job sauced off his tits more than a few times, once more wouldn’t be any different.

“So the rumors are true then, of Redania,” Iwan asked.

“To my knowledge, fully and truly. They had me reinstated as viscount, primped me up, and tossed me to the wolf. Nearly quite literally. The look on his face was quite amusing at the introduction, I think he rather thought me dead after out last departure.”

“But a pleasant reunion, surely,” Iwan asked, offering Jaskier just a little more liquor.

Jaskier accepted, but merely swished it in his glass. Doing his job drunk was one thing, but he was useless to anyone unconscious. And the last thing he wanted was to be at Iwan’s tender mercies if he wasn’t aware enough to participate. He needed Iwan to trust him, to give him names; who was holding the knife to Ciri’s throat.

“It was a less than pleasant parting, long before the war,” Jaskier sighed. “I was old enough by then to be weary with the life, and he was long past weary with me. But the dear empress was right, I owed him, and, in turn, her for those decades that I used him. I made my fame and fortune, and this now is my payment back. I can hand her another kingdom to annex, and I get a pleasant last few years.

“It’s not a bad lot, just a little… lonely.”

He let his eyes trail along Iwan’s open doublet, and Iwan grinned wickedly back, quickly tossing back his glass.

No need to say that work couldn’t include a little fun, after all.

The poet was near enough to touch, just a little stretch, but Jaskier didn’t want to seem forward. He wasn’t here to be yet another grabby lordling, all hands and desires. No, he wanted Iwan to come to him. To want to share the night with him, rather than just consider it another part of life at court. He wanted Iwan to be loose and happy enough to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

Maybe even offer him a way out. Via poison or knife, to the empress. He had certainly set himself as not here quite as willingly as he may seem, an easy enough act given his true feelings.

And that he never wanted to step foot near Geralt again. He was sure the feeling was mutual at this point. He would just need a servant to nab his new clothes while Geralt was out, and he’d be off. With or without a portal. It was easy enough to disappear if you knew how.

“Hollow stones and hollow halls, how I long for home long gone,” Jaskier sighed.

“Last I heard Lettenhove burned,” Iwan pointed out. “Not much of a home to return to.”

“No,” Jaskier agreed. “But to every man their home is a palace, and I was no different. Mud and char, but no one can understand the longing of home than those who have lost their own as well.”

“Yes,” Iwan said wistfully. “There’s nothing left of where I was raised either. Caught between armies, nothing will echo in those great graveyard but mourning wails again.”

“To a home that we are cursed to outlive,” Jaskier said, raising his glass and knocking it back. “May we keep cherished memories alive forever.”

“Your family,” Iwan said. “Surely they miss you. Or did the sweet empress arrange for that inconvenience to be taken care of as well?”

“Long gone in the war, I’m afraid. Graveyards don’t mourn the living.”

“I had a brother once,” Iwan said wistfully. “He wanted to see the flowers blossom along the hills of our village.”

“Violence,” Jaskier asked thoughtfully.

Iwan just shook his head, “The night sickness. Blind, and then gone a month later.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said honestly.

The war had truly been brutal to so many. But it explained the suffering he had read in Iwan’s poetry. Of what he had lost, with no hope of return. Drowned in the darkness. And now his light… Jaskier was beginning to see. Maybe there was no lord holding a leash here.

Maybe there was only the stilted memories of dark and lonely times.

“You’re very handsome,” Iwan said, rising from his chair and approaching Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled, nuzzling into his hand.

“No, I’m not,” Jaskier reassured him. “My face is scarred and my body sags. I’m old enough to be in the grave in another few years. Save your pretty lies for your pretty suitors.”

“Pretty suitors don’t shine from the inside,” Iwan breathed, reaching out and pulling Jaskier into a kiss. “They haven’t lived. Haven’t enough experience to be anything but paintings on the wall.”

“That’s the joy of youth,” Jaskier told him, gently tracing the other man’s exposed collarbone. “All pretty faces and pretty times inbetween pretty sheets.”

“And maybe,” Iwan said, staring into his eyes. “I want something more.”

Jaskier smiled, standing up and pulling the younger man against him. He was hard, hard enough that Jaskier knew it was a discomfort, but Jaskier couldn’t argue with that. A handsome man was making silly moves, and Jaskier wanted to sweet talk him in bed.

He palmed the poet’s crotch, and Iwan moaned, falling against Jaskier and mouthing at the marks Geralt has left the night before.

“Let me erase every stain he lay on you,” Iwan groaned. “Make you pure again.”

“Then take me to bed,” Jaskier mummered. “And whisper such sweet nothings in my ear as I will never hear again.”

He let Iwan lead him to the closed door, and let the younger man lower him to the bed. Let the poet fiddle with buttons and unthread ties. As long as he kept whispering sweet things and answering sweet questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: ...
> 
> Jaskier: I'm the greatest spy ever!
> 
> Everyone: ... o.o
> 
> *Jaskier flirts heavily with the assassin*
> 
> Everyone: ... O.O
> 
> *Jaskier has sexy times with the assassin*
> 
> Everyone: !!!
> 
> Jaskier: best spy ever!
> 
> Everyone: ... this is how you get dead, dumbass.


	30. Chapter 30

Geralt growled, storming the halls but getting nowhere. The scents of the day, overpowering perfumes and powders, itched at his nose and prevented him from so much as even tracking Jaskier. There was no telling where the man had gone off to, or to whom.

How many old friends did he have at court? How many could he go running to?

Geralt glared at a passing guard as he continued down the corridor, resisting the urge to sneeze. Never inhale too deeply in these vapid halls, he reminded himself. This was not the world of those who were more than they appeared. 

Eskel would know, though, where his little bard had flitted off to. Eskel, who knew every affair and dirty deed that happened. He marked them down in his little books, and bloodied those who crossed him in dark rooms beneath the dank earth. Eskel would have had an eye or two that followed Jaskier’s flight.

And then Geralt could grab him by the shoulders and properly apologize.

He hadn’t realized that he had said so many things over so many years. Why had the bard followed him for so long if he felt that way? 

He saw lights under the door of Eskel’s offices and pounded on them in relief before barging in. 

Eskel was sitting at his desk, checking two books, a quill stuck in his hair and ink on his face. He looked exhausted, and Geralt almost felt bad for needing to bring his troubles to the other man, but it couldn’t be helped. He needed to find him, needed to apologize for whatever wrong Jaskier thought he had committed. 

He needed to get Jaskier back.

The fool didn’t have the common sense that the gods gifted to geese, and Geralt didn’t want to risk waking to the news of a cuckolded husband murdering him in the night. Geralt had seen how he moved, had heard the creak in his bones as he had woke in the morning. He wasn’t young anymore, there was no more falling, carefully, out windows that he could survive.

“I lost Jaskier,” Geralt snapped, slamming the door shut behind him.

Eskel looked up with a glare, and then motioned for Geralt to sit down in one of the stiff, wooden chairs before his desk.

“Lost as in put in a place and you can’t remember, or lost as in you said something incredibly stupid and now he’s rid himself of your presence?” Eskel asked, sounding bored.

“We had a fight,” Geralt admitted. “But he just wasn’t-”

“Geralt, Jaskier listens better than nearly any other man I know,” Eskel cut him off, reaching down to pull up a bottle of clear liquor and a single cup.

Geralt stared pointedly at the single cup.

“You don’t need liquor, you’re foolish enough sober as it is,” Eskel said, pouring himself a nearly full glass. “And I need to be drunk enough to be foolish enough to listen to you.

“And before you open your mouth and say anything even worse, remember that you got yourself into this mess. It’s me that’s here to help dig you out. So no destroying the office, you can work out your anger with Lambert.”

“Lambert’s too drunk,” Geralt snapped.

“Drunk enough to be stupid enough to try to beat you, which is all you need,” Eskel sighed. “Now, what did you do now?”

“He,” Geralt paused, his hands tightening. “I did everything everyone said. I confessed. We fucked, and then he acted like it was nothing! He said that all I had ever been was cruel to him, and then he just left!”

Eskel snorted, downing the entire glass in a gulp and pouring himself a second.

“If by confessed you mean you acted like a greedy dog with a bone, then you’re a fool. Did you tell him that you love him? He’s a bard, remember, they like flowery language and clear messages. Getting grabbed and fucked is half of what they get paid to do at court.”

Geralt paled at that. He hadn’t considered that. Had never even noticed that. Was that why Jaskier fell into and out of so many beds all those years? Was he more a paid whore than a bard? Had Geralt been an escape from all of that?

“You’re thinking,” Eskel pointed out, interrupting the brooding silence. “Good things rarely come of that. What are you thinking?”

“He said I was cruel to him while we traveled,” Geralt admitted. “That I couldn’t care about him if all I had ever done was insult him.”

Eskel nodded, leaning back in his chair, but motioned for him to continue. 

“You know me! I wasn’t cruel, I just don’t-”

“Don’t know how to say anything nice unless someone forces you into it?”

“I was never cruel to Ciri,” Geralt snapped. “I may have been short with Jaskier, but he’s a bard! Everyone is short with bards!”

“Everyone fucks bards too, doesn’t make you any different,” Eskel said. “Geralt, you raised a daughter in a time of war, with others. She didn’t come to you for kindness, and you certainly were rough with her in the beginning.

“And now you want to be kind to someone, and your past is biting you in the ass. You can’t change that. And grabbing and fucking him like every other lord at court ever has isn’t going to change that either. You need to be soft. Get him some flowers, say nice things. Try not to maul him to the point where he shows up at court functions looking like a poorly used bone.”

Geralt bared his teeth at the last part, but Eskel just ignored him. 

“He’s leaving after the feast day,” Geralt admitted.

“No, he’s not, unfortunately,” Eskel sighed.

Geralt’s head shot up and he glared at his brother. He knew his bard had been a spy, but surely nothing he had done in the past warranted disappearing into Eskel’s dark little rooms. Jaskier may never think much of him, but he would defend him to the death, even against his brother.

“Sheath your claws, I’m not going to spirit him away,” Eskel said. “A situation has arisen with Redania. We knew they were going to approach us to negotiate merging into the kingdom, but, given the little play you and Jaskier have been putting on, it has pushed the time line forward.

“Redania has given Jaskier back his titles, and his lands, and expects your courtship to continue on to marriage as a way of sealing the deal, as Ciri has turned down any suitors they’ve thrown at her.”

“No,” Geralt growled.

“There’s not much room for anything but a yes,” Eskel shrugged. “There are bigger rooms with separate sleeping quarters. You wouldn’t be the first married couple that never saw each other face to face after vows were exchanged. 

“And I know you long for the Path, brother. A few words to tie two nations together, and whatever trouble you have with Jaskier can easily be swept away. You never have to truly see him again. In a few short years he’ll pass, and that will be the end of it. You can winter with Vesemir back in Kaer Morhen if you wish.”

“No,” Geralt snapped, sending his chair tumbling as he stood and began pacing. “I don’t want to be trapped in another courtly farce!”

“And you had to be hauled kicking and biting to admit that you even had feelings for the old bard in the first place,” Eskel reminded him. “Geralt, if you don’t sort out what you truly want I will have to sort it out for you.”

“You’ll not touch a hair on his head,” Geralt snarled. “If he disappears into your little dungeon I’ll-”

“You’ll do nothing, as you always have,” Eskel told him. “Just like how you never told him you cared for him, never told him you loved him, and never showed him anything but that you just thought him another whore in your bed.

“Go back to your rooms and go to sleep, Geralt. I may not be able to clean up your mess, but I will be arranging for you and Jaskier to join hands to ensure that Redania becomes part of the empire.”

Geralt gnashed his teeth, but Eskel simply poured a few more fingers in his glass and ignored him. 

“He’s safe, where he is now, doing his work. I’ll make sure he ends up back with you in the morning after we’ve had words.”

Geralt glared at him, fighting the urge to pick up the toppled chair and hurl it at his stony faced brother. His brother that clearly didn’t understand what was going on, or anything more than his growing thirst for fear soaked blood.

“Back to your rooms before I have to drag you there,” Eskel told him. “And, if it comes to that, it won’t be pleasant.”

Geralt glowered at him, but turned and left the room. His brother was an ass, an ass that didn’t understand, but he was still a witcher. And he would keep his word. So he needed the time to think, and to explain things to Jaskier.

Explain everything to him.

He didn’t hate him, he had never hated him. The bard was better than the people he merely saved out of duty. He had been his friend. Should have been more, if he hadn’t been so blind, and lashed out so often.

In the morning, when Eskel had him returned, he would be able to make Jaskier understand. And maybe he would still leave, but, this time, Geralt could hopefully go with him. Anything was better than rotting in this court another day longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt is growly and possessive*
> 
> Eskel: you're being a dumbass. Again.
> 
> *Geralt continues to be growly and possessive*
> 
> Eskel: and this is why you don't have any friends.
> 
> *Geralt does not change. At all.*
> 
> Eskel: and why Jaskier has to yell at you.
> 
> *Geralt whimpers like a puppy*
> 
> Eskel: I will never be drunk enough to deal with this shit.
> 
> *Lambert passes Eskel several bottles*
> 
> Eskel: you're not drunk enough to deal with this shit either.


	31. Chapter 31

Jaskier hummed as light touches caressed across his skin, like little butterfly kisses. Stroking lightly, mapping out the little scars that haunted him in the night. Such tiny things, they were, that brought him to his knees, screaming into the darkness of his nightmares.

“Do they hurt anymore,” Iwan asked, bringing Jaskier’s hand to his lips, kissing the underside of his index finger tenderly.

Jaskier had had to cut open that finger with a knife to get the splinter out.

“Only the memories,” Jaskier assured him, bringing a hand to his cheek and pulling him into a kiss.

“Memories often hurt the worst,” Iwan sighed, letting Jaskier bring him close, resting his head on Jaskier’s bare chest. “I remember the Cintran army crashing over the hills and descending on our village like a plague.

“All to defend us from Nilfgaard. Nilfgaard, who never would have looked at us had the army not been there.”

Iwan took a shuddering breath, and Jaskier nodded. He had heard stories like this before. Terrible stories of innocent people caught in the crossfire, nowhere to flee, the fires of war burning around them. If Iwan’s accent was light enough to make him a northern southerner, he must have been from the edge of the kingdom.

He had heard tales of black lands that would never grow green again, stretching mile after mile. A slash of death to define the border.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered, pressing a kiss into Iwan’s hair.

“The soldiers from the Cintran army pulled my mother screaming from the house while we hid under the floorboards,” Iwan’s voice cracked. “She had elven ears, from her grandfather.”

Jaskier’s stomach turned at the thought of that. Of two children watching, frightened, as soldiers desecrated the village. It was the same for both sides, unfortunately. War brought many to the battlefield, and not all monsters were so obvious to spot.

“It took half a day before she finally died. Screaming the entire time. Them cursing her for escaping Calanthe.”

Jaskier pulled the younger man tight, trying not to imagine the pain and horror Iwan’s mother must have felt. At least his torturers had been clean about it, and he had not had the misfortune of worse happening to him. Of being bound and beaten and fully desecrated like that.

“Ciri isn’t like that,” he tried to reassure Iwan. 

“The army she led was,” Iwan said, his body going stiff. “And you yourself know the cold cruelness of how witchers are raised. It is only time until she, too, turns on her own people with her lust for power and glory.”

Oh Iwan, Jaskier sighed to himself. How the world had taken the bright little bard and beaten him thoroughly before he had had a chance to spread his wings. He had seen so much evil in life that Jaskier understood how it clouded his vision, and kept him from seeing anything but a darkness yet to come. A darkness that would come, just like it had time and time again for the young man.

“And what would you have us do,” Jaskier asked, his voice soft. “Welcome the shattered south back into our lands?”

“No,” Iwan admitted, shaking his head. “I would have us be more than that. A soft hand for the people, taking in what they say, and letting our choices lead our nation, instead of a pampered few that waste away in palaces, never hungry or cold. They don’t know of the suffering of the world, they have never dug their families’ graves and known there was no need to leave a marker because no one else in all the world cared any longer.”

“A republic,” Jaskier said, a smile crossing his lips.

It would never work, not as the country was now. Half stitched together, half burned. It was a feat unto itself that the people were not half starving in the streets and marching for a revolution. And maybe they would, one day. But not now, not when Ciri was finally beginning to mend their wounds and fill their bellies. They would be satiated until she took a misstep too far, and they had no other choice.

But her grandmother had committed genocide, and reigned until she had the throne forcibly removed from her. Painfully, brutally removed. And that was a future that could still stand, waiting for Ciri to follow in her ancestors footsteps.

“Yes,” Iwan said. “A republic.”

“And do you sing alone of this lofty goal,” Jaskier asked, his hand running through Iwan’s hair, fingers dancing delicately at his scalp.

“For now, but there will be a chorus soon enough that I shall help lead. Once there is no other choice but for the audience to listen.”

Jaskier’s hand stilled then.

He had never really entertained the thought that Iwan might be acting alone. He had never done so, still never did so. Had always just assumed the young man was yet another agent, a warm body doomed to be destroyed when caught. Rent asunder by the cruel game of politics, both inside and out.

“Jaskier,” Iwan asked, looking up at the older man. “I know that you would never kill, I could never ask that of you, you’re too pure to do so. But, could you do one thing for me?”

“Ask,” Jaskier said, wondering what Iwan had planned.

If he pulled out a bottle now, he would have to go immediately to Eskel. He should go immediately to Eskel.

His heart broke at the lack of choices now. This poor young man had suffered so, had had his family torn apart and killed before him, his home destroyed, and now was thought of as a foreigner no matter where he went. There was no good future for him.

But sending him to Eskel, Eskel with his black bags and stone halls that no one ever returned from, was a horrifying answer. 

It was the correct answer, the only answer, he reassured himself.

He couldn’t allow this revolutionary to live.

The nation couldn’t survive this, not so young. Still in the cradle, and this poet had a pillow and delighted in plans of smothering it.

“I have an audience with the empress tonight, after supper. Just a brief few minutes to discuss the feast. I need to be alone with her, but with her wolves snapping at her heels it’s impossible,” Iwan sighed. “Could you waylay Geralt, just until I’ve had my words?”

Just until she was dead, he meant.

“It would be difficult, if the white wolf senses danger for his cub,” Jaskier reminded him.

“I have a knife, already dipped in a potion. It will paralyze him. Draw him and leave him for dead for but an hour.”

“Is an hour long enough to change the course of the nation,” Jaskier asked, already knowing the answer.

And hour was long enough to doom a man to a cold, forgotten grave.

“More than enough.”

“And Eskel,” Jaskier asked. “His bite is far worse than any other I have seen.”

“Taken care of. A man does not run his painful way through whores as he does without me gaining allies. He has earned his breathless sleep, I assure you.”

Jaskier let his fingers trail up and down Iwan’s spine, counting the ridges that hunger grew and could never, truly, do away with. He could feel the scars of his fingers itching and burning, but there was nothing he could do for it.

He had given everything he had had to build this new and wonderful empire. Had been shackled and bloodied as it had risen from the stormy lands. He could not abandon it now. Could not watch everything he had ever worked for be taken from him and dashed against the ground before him.

Not again.

He was sure he would not survive it a second time.

“I will pull delicate blood with your blade, but not a step further,” Jaskier agreed.

“Thank you,” Iwan sighed, turning his face and lapping delicately at one of Jaskier’s nipples.

Jaskier sighed and thrust upward, letting his mind and body enjoy the sweet ministrations of a young new lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: you can't do that.
> 
> Iwan: wtf not!?
> 
> Jaskier: says right here in the rule book. You need musical numbers to have a revolution. You don't have musical numbers.
> 
> *Jaskier hands Iwan the rule book*
> 
> Iwan: huh. So, you're a bard...
> 
> Jaskier: ex bard. I'm a secret agent man now.
> 
> Iwan: dammit.
> 
> Uh, in other news, tags have been updated.
> 
> Jaskier: and the author's an ass. You promised I wouldn't be sworded!
> 
> Me: who said anything about swording? I didn't say anything about swording you.
> 
> Jaskier: I don't believe you.
> 
> Me: and that's cute. Now go back into the angst box, you're not done being miserable yet.


	32. Chapter 32

It was nearly noon when Jaskier finally slipped from Iwan’s rooms, a blade tucked away in his doublet, burning at his conscious. Reminding him of the choices he had to make, of the paths he had to traverse so carefully now. Eskel would have the poet wrapped and bound before the sun set, and Jaskier wished to be whisked away before then.

He understood Iwan’s pain, his longing to build something better out of something cruel. But it was impossible now. Iwan could only dream of hopes, he could never truly help lead a nation. Not by dissolving the hierarchy and marching forward from there.

Hopes and dreams didn’t fill children’s bellies and keep them warm at night. 

Hopes and dreams wouldn’t return Iwan’s brother and mother to him.

But Jaskier had hope that, just maybe, he could talk the poet out of it. Let Iwan’s politics flourish, without death, and bring the change he desired to the country over time. Let the people call for it without the bloodshed they were used to.

Jaskier glanced to his right and slumped as a man materialized out of the shadows and joined him in the corridor. He knew he needed to speak with Eskel, he just hoped he wouldn’t be mistaken as one of the ones that needed to fade away as well.

Or, if so, at least the wolf would do him the honor of a swift death, rather than letting him remain screaming as his nightmares came to life around him once more.

“Lead me to him,” Jaskier said, not even bothering with a greeting. 

There was no need to be polite with the shadows of the court.

* * *

Eskel didn’t bother looking up as Jaskier was let into his office, smelling of sex and sweat. He should have known it would be like this. That Geralt would tear at old wounds until they bled, and his human bard, battered and broken, would flee to comforting arms.

He wished there was another way other than tying the two of them together. They weren’t good for one another. Geralt was too sharp to really love the other man, it would take decades to smooth out his edges. Decades that Jaskier, unfortunately, would never have.

The bard had started filing away at them, but he was doomed from the beginning to never see a finished product. Such were the brief lives of mortals, drifting through and leaving a few happy memories in their midst.

“How is Nedza,” Eskel asked, still looking over the papers that were neatly arranged before him.

“Better with his tongue than your brother,” Jaskier said, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the wooden chair in vain.

Eskel didn’t like being bothered by people. And he especially didn’t like having his work interrupted by them. Hard chairs with stiff backs went a great distance in making sure people left as quickly as possible. As did his reputation these days.

“You drove Geralt into quite the state with the words you exchanged last night,” Eskel said, not rising to acknowledge the barb about his brother.

He could afford for Jaskier to hiss and claw at him. 

“That I do regret,” Jaskier sighed, giving up at being comfortable. “I didn’t mean to say such things, but his actions… his temper is difficult to deal with at times. He’ll be glad to be rid of me again.”

“He spent time searching for you during the war, and after,” Eskel told him. “Oxenfurt and Lettenhove. He mourned you at Lettenhove.”

“He mourned what he wanted at Lettenhove,” Jaskier said. “A past he couldn’t have again. No more damn bard to follow him around yelling sweet nothings of his heroics to the crowds for coin.”

Eskel snorted at that. Yes, Geralt had, in part, longed not for Jaskier but for the Path, and the fond memories he had of it. Memories of a simpler, though perhaps crueler, times. When his journey was easy to navigate; find contracts, kill monsters. No politics, no family. A bard that followed him was the only company he kept besides his horse. 

No, Jaskier was partially right, but Geralt had, by the end, come to care for the bard. He had just been too dense to see it. He couldn’t separate the feelings, and now Eskel was left dealing with this headache of a mess.

“He hasn’t been driving myself and Lambert to the training grounds without good reason,” Eskel said. “He is stubborn, and foolish, and it took him many years, but he has confessed to you. Poorly, I’ll admit, but you know that words are not his weapon, and emotions are rather difficult for him to convey.

“But he does not take people to his bed lightly. He does not dote on those he does not feel the greatest of affection for. He is more a wolf than the rest of us in ways, I do apologize, but he is sincere with those feelings.”

Jaskier turned away, studying the plain walls, and Eskel’s gaze tightened on a new mark on his throat. Geralt was not going to take that well at all, but he should have known it was coming. At least it could be explained away, though he doubted his brother would take it well even still.

Geralt, in recent days, was nearly more of a headache than he was worth. The only reason Eskel hadn’t arranged for him to be hauled to Vesemir’s doorstep and dumped in the snow the instant the feast was over was because they needed him now.

He should probably still arrange for Lambert to be sober enough to exhaust him the next few days, though, just to be cautious. Better than hearing the soon to be newlyweds voices ring with angry shouts through the hallways nightly.

“He’ll speak with you this evening, in your rooms. This time, please, listen to him. Hear him out. He will have difficulty, but his heart is honest.”

“I’ll have words with him,” Jaskier nodded. “But I make no promises.”

“Words and understanding are all that I ask of you,” Eskel told him honestly. “It will make the first few days of the marriage more easily born, I’ve been told.”

Jaskier’s head shot up at that, and he looked at Eskel, confused. At least he wasn’t shouting and yelling, Eskel reassured himself. The bard, he was sure, could reach a most painful pitch if need be.

“Redania has agreed to merge into the empire with the joining of you and Geralt.”

“You told me the instant this was all over I could leave,” Jaskier snapped. “You promised me that I could go back to my life, and leave this all behind!”

“And for that I am sorry,” Eskel apologized. “But I must ask this of you as well. Your country, and the empire, have need of you. And cannot but have you serve.”

Jaskier swallowed, his eyes glassy, and Eskel knew he had him. He could smell the guilt rolling off him in waves. Guilt, most likely, for not having done enough in the war. A spy rarely saw the consequences of their actions, after all. And Jaskier hadn’t joined because of childhood dreams; he had become a spy to help win, and he knew how important this was now.

“After the feast day, please,” Jaskier asked, his voice wobbling a touch.

Eskel nodded in agreement.

There was no way to have a royal wedding of such massive importance in less than a fortnight. He had thought the new years eve would be best, to have the new year start with the two countries as one. Symbolism was often important to the people, and it would not go astray here either.

“Now, have you learned anything more?”

“No, whoever it was I heard that night, he is not one of the southern lords I have met so far,” Jaskier said, his voice still creaking.

Eskel nodded thoughtfully. He should release the poor man, let him come to terms with what he had asked of him. He had taken the promise of freedom and shut him in a gilded cage. Geralt would not thank him for breaking his bard so thoroughly, but it had to be done.

“Thank you, you can go,” Eskel motioned for the door. “And Jaskier, your country thanks you for your service.”

“Of course. Always,” Jaskier whispered, his voice smelling of salt and sorrow, and he slipped away.

Eskel returned to his notes, frowning. He didn’t like playing politics with his family, but it was necessary. He knew it was. Everything was to protect Ciri, and, in turn, the kingdom. And he would protect the little girl he had helped raise no matter what.

He just hoped that Geralt and Jaskier could at least find a modicum of happiness together by the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eskel is snarky*
> 
> *Jaskier makes a snarky remark back about Eskel's brother's sexual abilities*
> 
> Lambert: I wanna change my bet, I think Eskel's gonna kill the bard.
> 
> Yenn: no bet changing this late in the game.
> 
> *Geralt sulks in the corner*


	33. Chapter 33

Jaskier was happy to find the rooms empty when he returned, a simple loaf of bread and a variety of cheeses and cold meats still left untouched. Geralt must be off, perhaps with Lambert, finding new ways to terrify onlookers with his sword. No matter to him, everything was falling to pieces, and all he wanted was a bath and rest. And perhaps a few bites of food.

He cut himself a slice of bread, stacking cheese and ham thickly on top, but couldn’t taste anything when he chewed and swallowed. It didn’t even have the decency to fall to ash in his mouth, instead simply reminding him that he was still alive, and miserable.

He had done everything Redania, and now Ciri, had asked of him. He had given his music, his sight, his face, and his future for the cause. He had heard of his home being scorched to the very stones of the earth by Nilfgaard, and still he had not swayed. He had been true to the cause, and every sacrifice had been worth it.

But now, this; this was too much. To ask him to bind himself to Geralt, a man that could barely look at him without snapping and growling, simply to seal a treaty that would fall into place within the next few years to begin with? This was not a request for the good of the kingdom, it was a cruelty.

They were pulling him from the sea like some sort of exotic fish, and enjoying watching him twist and squirm in the slowly emptying bowl.

And everyone assumed that he would simply go along with it. Happily. Apparently one fuck was all it took to assume that he and Geralt were made for each other, that they would happily live out the rest of his life together at court. 

Without a single thought otherwise.

Jaskier let the tears stream down his face and his vision wobbled and fell to watery pieces. He was a pawn. Just another pawn, only worth more than the others because he had chosen to see the world as a young man and fallen in with a witcher that had the audacity to have a destiny.

He rose from the chair, stripping from his clothes as he slipped into the small bathing chamber. All that was there now was an empty tub and a bucket of cold water, but he didn’t care. He had spent the last few years scrubbing with salt, the only warm water to grace him was summer rain. 

A cold scrub now would clear his mind. He knew what he needed to do. Knew it down to his bones.

Redania would fade into a new country, and Ciri would expand her empire. The land would recover, children would sleep with full bellies and warm blankets, crops would be harvested. And bards would safely wander the land singing for coin while they learned the cruelties of life through tinted glasses.

And he could help make sure that happened. 

Jaskier rinsed himself off, shivering, and dried himself before going to the bedroom to find something to wear. Something grand, something beautiful. 

Something that reminded him of the ocean, that he would never see again.

* * *

Jaskier waited, sitting in front of the fire, watching as the flames lick and spit at the wood as the sun began to set. It was early, but everyone was busy preparing for the feast tomorrow. A grand celebration, made even grander with the impending announcement of his nuptials.

He can only imagine how wondrous it will be. An entire evening of gilded fancy and hope, women draped in their finest silks, the men in their tailored best. It would be a night of fantasy.

And Jaskier’s nightmare.

The door opened, and he looked up as Geralt stormed in, his eyes piercing in the darkness. How must the other man have taken the news? That his own daughter had leashed him like an ill trained pup, muzzled to her beck and call. He was sure there had been words, angry growls, but she had won.

And now he was Geralt’s.

The other man stood tense, and Jaskier rose with a sigh. There was no avoiding this. No running away now. He must stand and face his battles.

“You know, then,” Jaskier said, his hand still tracing along the back of the chair for support.

For the first time in a very, very long time he longed for his lute. For something to hold and strum and hide behind.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, approaching him. “I didn’t want this, you have to believe I didn’t want this.”

Jaskier nodded. He knew that already. Geralt was just as much a wild animal as he was, he would never wish this upon another. To be tied and bound was his nightmare. One that Jaskier refused to live through again.

“I know,” Jaskier smiled, tears in his eye. “But it’s something that has to be done. For the good of the country. The country has to come first, the world cannot survive another upheaval right now.”

“They can fucking well survive without us marrying,” Geralt snapped, and Jaskier flinched.

Geralt growled and looked away, glaring at the fire for a moment, his fists tightening, before he turned to stare at Jaskier again. And Jaskier could see something, something fleeting, hovering for just a brief second in his eyes. A few precious moments and it was gone, but it had been there.

The distant future of what could now never be. Would Geralt have held that feeling in his eyes for him always if he had pressed the matter and confessed when he had been a younger man? Would he have followed Geralt onto the battlefield? Would he have helped raise Ciri, together with the rest?

Would he have already married Geralt?

Would they have been happy?

All the questions were quenched with just a single truth: he had been a coward, all those years ago. Had been afraid he would lose something he did not yet have. And now would never have, could never have. Because Geralt had shown him that he would never be the man he wanted him to be.

He would never be soft, he would never whisper sweet nothings in his ear before taking him to bed, never hold his hand and watch the sun set over a calm summer ocean. He was the White Wolf, fierce and true. He had no use for a scarred, half blind, coward of a former bard.

“No, they can’t,” Jaskier said, taking another step forward. “This is how countries spin, how they remain safe. They bind themselves with ropes until everyone is keeping the crown firmly in place.”

He could feel tears trying to well up in his eyes, but he blinked them away. He needed to be strong for this, not weeping. Geralt’s nose flared, but he didn’t move as Jaskier took a step forward. And then a second.

They were standing before each other now, Geralt’s eyes shining furiously in the firelight, and Jaskier tried not to wince as he smiled. His scars nearly burned, he could see how they disgusted Geralt, but there was nothing for it. His face could only be his in the end.

He cupped Geralt’s cheek fondly, and drew him into a slow, gentle kiss. 

The witcher was like stone in his hands. Jaskier could feel the pulsing tension in Geralt’s muscles, screaming with the need for violence. But he stayed still until Jaskier pulled away, his face blank and his lips wet.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered, the knife slipping from his doublet and sliding into Geralt’s side with a swift, careful motion.

It was a bloody flesh wound, but even a mortal man would live, given a little time. He had seen Geralt stand and walk away in minutes after worse. It most likely wouldn’t even leave a scar to remember him by.

“Wha-” Geralt gasped, stumbling backward, his hand going to his side, Jaskier quickly tucking the knife back into his doublet.

Geralt fell to his knees, his eyes wide and confused, and Jaskier stood back, waiting for him to collapse completely. The poison would only take moments, but Geralt was still dangerous during that time. A wounded animal was always the most ferocious. 

“It has to be this way,” Jaskier said, crouching down near him and making sure the other man was still breathing. “I’ve gone over it time and time again, but there’s no other way. 

“The poison will wear off within the hour. But Ciri will be safe, you have my word on it.”

Geralt gaped at him, his mouth trembling and trying to voice words, but Jaskier turned away. He couldn’t stand here and watch this. He had done this, and that was enough. 

But it was for the good of the empire, Jaskier repeated to himself as he readjusted his doublet and straightened his face. The door closed firmly behind him and he walked calmly down the hallway.

For the good of the empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: ... o.o
> 
> Geralt: ... o.o
> 
> Everyone: ... o.o
> 
> Jaskier: woohoo, I didn't get stabbed, I didn't get stabbed!
> 
> *Jaskier does his fancy didn't get stabbed dance*
> 
> Geralt: but I fucking did!
> 
> Jaskier: tough shit, now you know what I always feel like!
> 
> *Jaskier sticks out his tongue and continues his happy dance*
> 
> *Geralt sulks and bleeds in the corner*


	34. Chapter 34

Eskel was exhausted when he finally returned to his rooms, though he knew the night was far from over. He still needed to escort Ciri to her meeting with Nedza to discuss the poetry that would be read at the feast the next day, he was actually excited to see Geralt’s discomfort at that. It would do his brother good to sit and squirm in the spotlight a little longer.

And, while he could use the rest, he really needed to check the reports from the apothecaries from the outlying cities and trade routes. They had still been unable to discover who had bought the supply that had been used in the palace.

And Eskel did not like to be left in the dark when it came to deaths in the palace.

He stopped short in surprise when he saw Alek standing in the sitting rooms, dressed in his black leathers, his hair tied back. He frowned, the whore should not be here.

“I didn’t send for you,” Eskel said, staring the other man down.

For all that he matched the physique, he would never have the same presence as his brother, and he wilted easily under Eskel’s demanding glare. Eskel noticed how he held his hand, hidden, and took a strong smell.

The fool had brought a poisoned blade into his rooms.

Eskel growled, grabbing Alek by the throat and slamming him into the wall.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing,” Eskel demanded, bringing his knee into Alek’s groin and sparing the knife barely a glance as it clattered across the floor.

Alek’s blue eyes went wide, but he didn’t try to speak, and he did not struggle in Eskel’s grasp.

“I will only ask you one more time,” Eskel snarled. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Had to give him time,” Alek whimpered, and Eskel’s nose wrinkled as the smell of urine joined the stench of fear and poison.

“We’re men, not toys,” Alek began gasping as Eskel’s hand tightened around his throat.

Eskel growled, grabbing Alek’s head and twisting it sharply, snapping his neck and letting him drop to the ground. 

The fool had been in league with Nedza.

He must have planned to assassinate Ciri tonight. And Jaskier had been working with him, had lied to his face about him. But no, he was the one to alert Eskel to the plot in the first place. 

Eskel growled to himself as he left his rooms, he would sort this all out later.

He motioned for two of the shadows in the corridor to slip forward.

“To Geralt’s rooms, bring Jaskier into custody,” Eskel snapped to the one on the left. “You, with me. To Nedza’s rooms.”

The shadows nodded, and Eskel let his anger roll off in waves as he stormed towards Nezda’s lair.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t bother knocking at Iwan’s doors, he didn’t want to cause a scene in the hallway where he couldn’t control it. Because that’s what he needed to do now, control the situation. He need to be the one that Iwan saw as rational, not have him flee into the sword of a guard or one of Eskel’s black sacks.

He needed the poet to see that Jaskier was a way for him to escape that. There was no escaping what he had done and had planned to do, but Jaskier could at least save him the more brutal consequences.

The room was still the half neat mess, the the papers had been removed from the floor, and the table was laid for two. A stunning china set, something he was certain Ciri’s private kitchens must have sent up, sat waiting to be poured into the delicate cups.

Would Ciri have sat there and drunk it? He didn’t know. She certainly did not eat in public, but perhaps tea was safe enough in her mind?

He was surprised, truly, that Iwan had resorted back to poison once more, given how it had failed so spectacularly in the past. But there was no way he could be fool enough to dare attempting to raise a blade against her. Her training would have his throat slit before he came close to cutting her.

Jaskier settled in the seat, eyeing the closed bedroom door, and poured himself a cup of tea.

He was sipping at it gently, ignoring the bitter taste of a poorly brewed and poisoned blend, when Iwan emerged from his little bedroom.

“Jaskier,” Iwan said, pausing a moment. “I don’t understand, why are you here? This isn’t part of the plan.”

“Take a seat, Iwan,” Jaskier said, pouring the other man a cup of tea.

Iwan did not so much as touch the cup, staring wide eyes and Jaskier raised his and took another sip. Really, Jaskier was surprised he had managed to poison anyone at all, the poet was particularly bad at it. Anyone with a palate would have known there was something wrong with the tea after the first sip. He should have chosen another vial of death to use.

Unless he had been limited in his selection. If Eskel’s little spies hadn’t been able to find who had sold the poison, it was more than likely he had brought it with him, and had never had the opportunity to procure more. 

It wasn’t a movement, then. Dear little Iwan was working with one of Eskel’s sweet whores, and that was all. That was who had been in the hallway with him that evening, that is who he had been bickering with.

He was right, Ciri would be safe by the end of this, and Eskel could continue to keep her so after.

“Jaskier, you shouldn’t be drinking-”

“Naja, right,” Jaskier asked, setting down his half empty cup. “She would have noticed the scent before it ever passed her lips, you know. They can smell poisons, it’s part of their training. I think this one is even used in one of their potions, so I doubt it would have done much then.”

Iwan paled, and Jaskier took a last gulp, emptying the cup.

“She would have walked in here, and had you pinned to the wall like a fly. And then Eskel would have carted you off and taken you apart, piece by piece, until there was no memory left that you would have ever been whole again,” Jaskier continued. “I know, I’ve been under the careful ministrations of men such as he.

“That’s why I’m here, Iwan. To give you a way out. To save you the agony the coming months will bring you.”

Iwan’s fists were clenched, his knuckles white, his face furious as a tear or two dripped down his cheeks. Oh sweet poets, how the world wounded them so. There was no protecting him now from the death that was to come, but at least he could offer him a swift one.

“You don’t understand,” Iwan lashed out. “She is no different than her grandmother! She will ride over the lands and beat us down until we are drowning in the mud, and demand that we be thankful for it! People will starve, their skin will rot and their eyes go blind, and she will sit here in her shining palace demanding ballads be sung of how great she is! Of how she saved us from all threats that would see us worse off!

“But death will be a blessing under her rule. Without a voice she will never hear the people, she will never think of us!”

Jaskier swallowed, his mouth dry, and nodded. He understood the other man; from the outside looking in, Ciri attended feasts while her people struggled to set enough aside for the winter. She was warm while little children froze in their mothers’ cold arms in the dead of night. The palace that was everything that was splendid and repulsive.

And maybe Ciri would turn out that way. But he hoped she kept her head grounded enough to avoid that. To remember that she was here to serve the people, and not the other way around.

“And killing her would do nothing but send the crown rolling to the ground, and the war to claim it would cost thousands more. This was not the way, Iwan. You should have let your voice be heard, softly, but with power. Let you influence her reign, help call for transformation.

“Nothing good can come of wanton murder with no plan.”

“It would have been better than falling asleep at night, remembering my mother’s screams,” Iwan said piteously.

So many had been wounded by the war, so many torn apart both inside and out. 

Jaskier flexed his fingers, feeling the tips begin to tingle. The poison was working then, painless for now, but he knew that would not be so quickly. He had never been an assassin of any sort, but all spies knew the poisons of their trade. Naja was a brutal one, and he hoped it would render him unconscious before the worst of it.

“It was just you, then,” Jaskier asked gently. “And one of Eskel’s men?”

“Alek,” Iwan nodded. “The palace is only full of those that would blind their eyes to the sufferings of others. They would have all needed to burn.”

Jaskier ducked as the tea pot came flying at him, the aim poor and not a true threat, but Iwan’s anger was the true danger. He couldn’t let the man escape, slipping away into the halls to only return with a bloodier attempt at revolution. 

He stood, launching himself at Iwan, giving no care as the poet struck out at his face, taking the blow even as he pulled the knife from his doublet. He hadn’t wanted it to end like this, but he had known it would have. No one sane was driven to Iwan’s actions, no one sane would have surrendered to anything less than bloody death.

The knife slipped easily between his ribs into his chest, and Jaskier twisted the blade and drove it true. He could feel the first pulse of the other man’s heart against the steel, and then the second.

There was no third.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier sighed, rolling off the dead man, his lungs heaving for air as limbs began to go numb. “It wasn’t personal, Iwan. For the empire. I needed to protect the empire.”

Black spots began to dance in his eye, clouding his vision, and his muscles screamed when he tried to move. No wonder the tea had been so bitter, Iwan must have used an insane amount of Naja in it. Most doses would have at least given him a few hours to escape from the palace and die somewhere peaceful, alone.

The door crashed in, and Jaskier let his eye wander to an angry Eskel. It was so hard to concentrate on him, but he had to. He had to know.

“What the fuck did you do, bard,” Eskel growled.

“Stopped him,” Jaskier muttered, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Was working with Alek, alone. Drank the last of his poison. Saved the empire.”

“Fuck,” Eskel snapped, turning toward the darkness that was dancing all around him. “Get the fucking healers in here, now!

“How the fuck did you escape Geralt?”

“Cut him,” Jaskier said, his voice straining as the air became heavy. “He’ll be fine in the morning. Sorry.”

He blinked, confused as Eskel wavered in front of him.

“Where are the stars,” Jaskier asked, trying to think.

He had planned this. He knew he had. He was supposed to see stars before the darkness swallowed him back.

He wanted to see the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier stares at Eskel in shock*
> 
> Jaskier: you snapped his neck!
> 
> Eskel: you drank poison!
> 
> Jaskier: you drove me to suicide, doesn't count!
> 
> Eskel: it's still stupid!
> 
> *Lambert passes a bottle of liquor to Yenn*
> 
> Lambert: did we even bet on shit like this?
> 
> Yenn: nah, too implausible.
> 
> *Lambert shrugs and begins drinking freely*


	35. Chapter 35

Geralt sat next to the bed, holding one of Jaskier’s hands in his own, unnerved at how cold it was. It should have been warmer, humans were supposed to burn so bright, but the potions and tonics were burning through him even brighter now, and he was faltering. Had been faltering all night, until now he finally lay still as the morning sun began to rise.

Geralt looked up with a glare as the door opened, daring anyone to try to drag him away from his bard’s bedside once more. Yenn had tried briefly in the night, as had Eskel and Ciri, but he had sent them all off on their way. Less than politely, and knew he would suffer for his rudeness later, but he didn’t care.

It was so hard to care when he was sitting here, alive, in a room where the quiet was shattered only by the wheezing gasps of the man he loved.

“Peace, brother,” Lambert said, closing the door quietly behind him.

He held a bowl of stew and a tankard of what smelled like mulled cider.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had gone longer than a few hours without food before, missing a breakfast now wouldn’t strain him unduly.

“Eat,” Lambert demanded, thrusting the bowl at Geralt.

Geralt just glared back at the other witcher. He didn’t have time for this, whatever it was.

“Geralt, it’s not drugged,” Lambert said wearily. “But you need to eat. You’ve been stabbed, poisoned, healed, and damn near tore the head off of one of Eskel’s little fools and then Eskel himself. You need your strength. Now eat. Before I sit on you and force it down your throat.”

Geralt growled, but he took the bowl, releasing Jaskier’s hand for the first time in hours. The stew was warm, leftover from some mass meal in the kitchen for the servants he was sure, and the cider was spicy and hot. He wolfed it down, barely taking the time to taste it, before he offered the empty bowl to his brother.

Lambert nodded in approval, pulling up a chair and sitting on the other side of Jaskier’s bed. Geralt just shrugged and put the bowl on the floor before he took up Jaskier’s cool hand once more.

He brought it to his mouth, breathing on it and trying to rub some warmth into it, but the lifeless coolness remained. He missed his voice, he realized. He had spent so many years disparaging him about his singing, and now all he wanted to do was hear him speak once more.

“He was a brave man,” Lambert finally said, shattering the silence softly.

“He’s a fool,” Geralt said. “Always getting into trouble. I spent half our time together rescuing him from one nonsense or another.”

“I heard about a few of the stories, he managed to shimmy down the outside of a tower in the middle of winter naked as a bird with just his lute, if you can believe half of them.”

Geralt snorted at that. He hadn’t been there for that particular one, and he doubted Jaskier had left without his clothes, the man was always so vain about his clothes, but he could believe it. Could just imagine Jaskier escaping into the snow at the end, grinning his head off and declaring that it was completely worth it.

Everything he had done in life had always been completely worth it.

“I’m sure he has even crazier ones,” Geralt said.

And this time, he would make sure to listen to each and every single one of them.

“Did Eskel or Yenn send you,” Geralt asked, looking up.

Lambert shook his head.

“They’re busy running around and checking every thread they can find to make sure that poet assassin was working alone. Eskel’s probably going to fill his playrooms for the next ten years at the rate he’s going.”

“And Ciri’s okay?”

“Worried about you, and the bard, but fine. Last I heard they were trying to muddle through some mess with Redania. I have no doubt she’ll slip away at some point just to save herself the trouble of gutting them all over the negotiation table.”

Geralt nodded, that was good. Eskel and Yenn could handle everything, and hopefully manage to keep Ciri’s temper in check, while he sat here and waited for Jaskier to open his eyes again. The recovery would be painful, but he’d be here for him. Every step of the way. And then they could go away, and never think about this night again.

“I’m surprised he’s still alive,” Lambert said. “The dose he had would have taken out you, me, and Eskel ten times over.”

“He’ll wake up,” Geralt insisted, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair from Jaskier’s clammy face. “He just needs a little time for Yenn’s potions to do their work.”

“Best pray that he doesn’t,” Lambert said.

Geralt snarled, baring his teeth. How _dare_ his brother say such words here, and now!?

“Geralt, you know how painful naja is. It burns you away and turns your blood to thickened jam in your veins. If he wakes now, he wakes to unending agony. At least this way his death is peaceful.

“It’s better this way.”

Jaskier’s pained, gasping wheeze echoed through the room as Geralt felt the tears on his cheeks. He knew Lambert was right. Knew there was no waking up from this, not now. Not ever.

And he would never wish that sort of death on his bard, not for the selfishness of simply wanting to whisper a few words into his ear, and hear them answered back.

“I never told him,” Geralt admitted, bringing Jaskier’s hand to his lips. “I just want to tell him.”

“Coen doesn’t find a new monster down south every winter,” Lambert finally said. 

Geralt looked at him, and waited for him to continue. Anything to distract him from watching Jaskier, his bard, slowly dying in his hands, his life slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“He found some widow down by the borders. Don’t look at me like that, not that way,” Lambert said with a snort. “She’s half blind, half deaf, and probably older than Vesemir. But she thinks Coen is her son. Calls him Johan, tells him how good a boy he is, taking the time to return home to see his mum after all these years. Feeds him warm soups, and even fluffs his fucking pillows before he goes to bed! And I think he likes it, it’s a lie, but it’s an honest lie. Better than the stinking piss rivers of lies that flow through the court.

“She got him a cat once, apparently Johan had a thing for cats. It was hilarious to watch that little kitten squirming and hissing and trying to escape, but Coen just nodded and let his hands and arms get torn up while she cooed about how cute it all was.”

Geralt snorted at that. He could believe that, could see Coen bending over backwards and doing everything to make that old woman happy. He was a good man, but had a soft spot that Geralt was surprised hadn’t landed him in trouble before now. 

“I bet you still haven’t let him live that down.”

“No, and I never will, still brings a tear to my eye,” Lambert agreed. “But the point is, one year Coen is going to go down there to help her out for the winter, and she’s not going to be there. Her little house is going to be empty and cold, and there’s no avoiding that. And you can’t lie to yourself about it, that doesn’t help anyone.

“You need to be honest.”

“I, love him,” Geralt admitted. “But I never told him.”

“Then tell him now, brother. Everything that you never told him over all those years. The words that you swallowed and tried to ignore. This is the only time you have left with him, a few quiet hours more. Let him know.”

Geralt nodded. His brother was right. 

He had squandered their time together, but at least he could tell him everything at the end.

Lambert rose from his chair, patting Jaskier on the shoulder with a smile.

“I’ll keep watch at the door. You have your time now, brother, don’t waste it.”

“When did you become the smart one of us?”

“When Eskel turned feral in this cage, and you started going half mad. There was no one else left to be the smart one.”

“Thank you, Lambert,” Geralt nodded, turning back to Jaskier as the door closed.

“I love you, you know,” Geralt whispered, still holding Jaskier’s hand in his own. “I didn’t see it for so many years, but I finally managed to pull my head out of my own ass and saw it. It was you, always you.

“I should have told you sooner.”

* * *

Geralt sat with Jaskier, holding his hand as the sun rose, and set again. And, finally, as the moon began to rise on that cold autumn’s night, Jaskier’s breath rattled loose and escaped him. Geralt didn’t howl. He didn’t cry, he had already shed his tears. 

He simply wrapped Jaskier up in his blankets, and placed a gentle kiss on his brow, before getting up and leaving.

His bard was gone, there was no use in staying in the palace a moment longer.

Not with the lies, and the games, and the death. Everything that was so carefully placed to trap him and others into place, to show off how they were tame now, how the empire had the power of witchers to back it up. Geralt couldn’t stand it, wouldn’t stand it, a moment longer.

His gear was in his rooms, carefully stowed like he never should have left it. He should never have left the Path, never should have forgotten that he was a witcher. He wasn’t a tame hound for the hunt, he was a wolf. But that had slipped away from him, when he had thought he had been protecting Ciri.

But she was grown now, she had others. And he couldn’t stay here and break himself with the lie that she needed him any longer. 

“Father,” Ciri’s voice was in the stables behind him as he was saddling the newest Roach. A fine beast, though a little less plucky than the last one. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye?”

Geralt tightened the buckles, but nodded. She was right, he at least owed her that much.

“Jaskier’s dead,” Geralt told her, his voice still breaking on his bard’s name.

Ciri nodded, waiting patiently for him to continue, to find his words to explain it to her.

“I can’t stay here any longer. This place isn’t for me, not with the lies and secrets,” Geralt told her, hoping she would understand.

So many people had left her in her life, and now he was doing the same. But, he reassured himself, it wasn’t the same. He was still alive, he would still be there for her. He just couldn’t be _here_ for her.

“I understand,” Ciri said, her voice calm and reassuring. 

The voice of an empress. She stood there, not in her gowns but trousers and a blouse, and still she had the bearing of the weight of her crown. Her poise was fierce, and she would never falter.

She had matured so much since he had met her, a little girl running scared through the forest. 

“I’m proud of you,” Geralt finally told her, telling her the words he should, too, have long since said. “You’re strong and smart, and you will lead the empire well.”

“But you won’t be here to see me lead, will you,” Ciri asked, and Geralt shook his head.

“I’ll be on the Path, protecting the people the witcher way. But you have your mother, and Eskel helping you. You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll miss you, father,” Ciri said, hugging him tightly before stepping back. “Give my love to Vesemir.”

Geralt nodded, checking his bags one last time before swinging into Roach’s saddle. The night was only just beginning, but Kaer Morhen was a long journey ahead.

“Be good cub, do your people proud,” Geralt told her. “Remember that, always. They need you.”

“Of course,” Ciri said. “Safe journeys.”

Geralt urged Roach forward, onto the frost mottled path, and didn’t look back.

He would never be able to look back at the gaping maw of the empire where his never-to-be lover had died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: again!?
> 
> Me: hmm?
> 
> Jaskier: you killed me again!
> 
> Me: of course I did, that’s what I do.
> 
> Jaskier: then do something else!
> 
> Me: I did, I made a lovely cake!
> 
> *shows off lovely cake*
> 
> Jaskier: … it says ‘Happy Death Day’…
> 
> Me: well duh, it has to be appropriate to the occasion!
> 
> *Jaskier throws himself in Geralt’s arms, sobbing*
> 
> *Geralt glares*
> 
> *I munch on delicious cake*
> 
> Lambert: and this is why I stick to booze.
> 
> The end! I’m so glad to have had all of you on this wonderful journey with me, and I hope it lived up to your expectations in the end! So enjoy reading, and have some cake!


End file.
